


Deadlock

by ofplanet_earth



Category: Halt and Catch Fire
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Alternate Universe - Hackers, Alternative Universe - FBI, Assault, Consulting Criminal, Donna and Gordon aren't together, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Good Cop Bad Cop, Power Dynamics, Undercover, accidental feelings, agent!Bosworth, except Cameron has to do all the dirty work, hacker!Cameron, oops Cameron cares
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 10:23:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4475792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofplanet_earth/pseuds/ofplanet_earth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deadlock— n. Of an operating system: a situation wherein two or more processes are unable to proceed because each is waiting for the other to do something.</p><p>Under ordinary circumstances, cheating a video arcade out of a couple quarters isn’t cause for arrest. No reason for two beefy guys to grab her by the arm in the middle of what had been her longest standing game of Defender ever. So what the manager caught her stealing her quarters back again? The worst of all possible scenarios is the legal equivalent of a slap on the wrist. So why is she sitting in a chair, in front of a metal table with a pair of handcuffs bolted to the top, staring at a two-way mirror?</p><p>now with <a href="http://plotbunniesincolour.tumblr.com/post/129413954603/deadlock-inspired-art-series-of-pieces-for">COVER ART</a> by the amazing <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveActuallyFan/pseuds/LoveActuallyFan">LoveActuallyFan</a>!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Do Protocol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do Protocol— v. to perform an interaction with somebody or something that follows a clearly defined procedure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story came to me in the form of an awesome cinematic dream, so I have ideas. This will most likely be short, maybe five chapters, because I already have some vague ideas of plot.  
> Mostly I'm just glad I got myself to write it. 
> 
> Setting is present-day, mostly because there's more computer crime now than in 1983. Writing about current technologies also requires far less research. I'm obsessive and detail oriented, but I'm also lazy.

Under ordinary circumstances, cheating a video arcade out of a couple quarters isn’t cause for arrest. No reason for two hulking douche bags to grab her by the arm in the middle of what _had_ been her longest standing game of Defender _ever_. So what if the manager caught her stealing her quarters back _again_? The worst of all possible scenarios is the legal equivalent of a slap on the wrist. So why is she sitting in a chair, in front of a metal table with a pair of handcuffs bolted to the top, staring at a two-way mirror? 

Cameron keeps her cool. They can’t have much on her. Shoplifting, maybe, but nothing serious. This is a scare tactic and she doesn't scare easily. 

A middle-aged man walks into the room. He’s not one of the beefy body guard-types from the arcade; he’s balding around the top of his head and wearing a three-piece suit of all things, and he comes to sit down across from her. She says nothing, keeps her eyes trained forward, her shoulders relaxed. She concentrates on keeping the frown lines off her forehead. She squares her jaw and holds it, telling herself it’s a show of defiance rather than a nervous twitch. 

“Miss Howe,” The man starts by placing a manilla folder on the table and flipping it open. “I hope my guys didn’t treat you too rough. They do get a little excited sometimes.” 

Excited is one word for it. Her right shoulder is sore from when they wrenched it behind her back and her wrists are already dark with the lines of the handcuffs they slapped on her. She keeps her eyes soft and stubbornly says nothing. 

“Do you know why you’re here?” 

Cameron gives her best belligerent smirk, crosses her arms and slouches in her chair. She settles in for a lecture and sighs, “I don’t even know where _here_ is.” And it’s true. She’s somewhere downtown, but this isn’t the police station. This guy is some kind of law enforcement, but he’s not some street cop. 

He smiles in response and shifts through his papers. Cameron finds it more than a little hilarious that whatever department she’s managed to be snagged by, they still keep paper files. Even more ridiculous is that this guy is trying to use this archaic display to scare her. There’s a picture of Cameron on the top sheet, but the others are just an indecipherable mess of upside-down text, bulleted lists and the occasional paper-clipped photo. 

The whole thing is straight out of a bad 90s cop show.

“Cameron Howe, twenty-two years old. Daughter of Cameron and Judith Howe—you’re named after your old man, ain’t that sweet—born in Kansas City, resident of Dallas for five years and currently enrolled in the University of Texas, department of computer sciences.” 

“Cool, you can read. Can I go?” 

“Now just a moment, Miss Howe. I’m just warming up.” He lifts his eyes from the page and smirks, and the first shot of dread slides down Cameron’s spine. “I’m gonna ask you again: do you know why you’re here?” The balding man leans forward, his hands folded across the pages he’s begun to spread out in front of him. 

“Um. Video game fraud?” Cameron shrugs. 

“Incorrect, I’m afraid.” Picking up one sheet of paper at a time, the man begins to read again. “Columbus, Nashville, Tulsa, Shreveport. Any of these ringing any bells for you?” 

This could be worse, is what Cameron tells herself. This doesn’t mean he’s actually _got_ anything on her. “They’re all names of cities. I don’t see what they have to do with me.” Her voice doesn’t shake, and she would smile over that small victory if she wasn’t actually scared shitless.

“No?” the man frowns, “You mean you didn’t attend school in Ohio?” Cameron shakes her head, frowns only slightly. “Oklahoma? Tennessee, Louisiana?” 

“Not that I can recall, no.” 

The man nods, the fuzz that’s left on the center of his head doing little to lessen the glare of the fluorescent lights overhead. “And it would appear that you are correct. I’ve got all their transcripts here, and none of them list any Cameron Howe.” 

“Great.” Cameron pushes her chair back and it screeches across the linoleum floor. “Can I go?” She doesn’t like these questions, doesn’t like the way the conversation is going. But they don’t have anything to do any real damage—at least not yet. 

“Please take your seat, Miss Howe.” He puts the school records off to the side and picks up another sheet. Cameron sinks back into her chair. 

“I pulled the birth records for the year you were born. There were no baby girls named Cameron in Kansas City that year. So that got me thinking, and with a little work I found your father’s military records.” The man taps his middle finger against his temple. His smile is sly and Cameron feels nauseous. “Then it started to come together.” 

The page in the man’s hands comes to rest in front of her so she can read it. Her name is highlighted. “You folks moved around quite a bit, but all his transfer orders list a daughter named _Catherine_.” 

He picks up the school records again and lays them all out on top of the transfer orders and each one of them lists her name, pinpointed with bright highlighter yellow. 

“So I changed my name.”

“It would appear that you did. Except doing that takes some time, and no small amount of paperwork.” Cameron says nothing and they sit in silence for a beat, two. “Wanna guess what I found by way of a paper trail?” 

Cameron shakes her head and squeezes her hands into fists beneath the table. 

“Bull. That’s what I found. Not a single document.” 

“Maybe someone made a mistake. Shit happens.” She’s blowing smoke and they both know it. If he has her real name then he has her real record, too, and he knows this isn’t her first bust. 

The man smiles. He still has cards to play. 

“Now, I don’t work in Social Security or at the DMV or nothin, but I got friends down there and they assure me they keep tip-top records. Got ‘em digital and everything.”  
 Cameron swallows against the bile rising in her throat. That’s why the whole paper show on the table. That’s why she hadn’t seen anyone doing searches or looking into her past. This guy has an endgame. He’s done his homework and he’s kept it all offline. 

“You’re in computer science, so I’m gonna assume you know a little bit about secure files and servers.” Cameron’s breath is coming faster, her heart fluttering in her chest and her pulse pounding in her ears. 

“An educated woman like yourself must know that it’s a felony to alter government documents such as you have. Judging by the look on your face, I’d wager you also know that charge carries a sentence of up to ten years prison time in the good state of Texas.” 

“So what’s your point? If you’re going to arrest me, just get it over with.” 

“My point, _Cameron_ ,” He enunciates her name with all the force and fire of a red-hot branding iron, “is that there is no trace you’d changed anything. Not a single byte out of place, no crowbar marks on the firewalls—not one clue.” 

Cameron is light-headed. Her chest is tight and she has to take a deliberate breath in. “Are you going to charge me?” 

“My friend in Social Security,” the man gestures over his shoulder, towards the two-way mirror, and Cameron suddenly feels outnumbered, cornered—hunted. “You’ve really pissed him off. He wants to see you in handcuffs ‘bout as bad as he wants the Cowboys to win the Super Bowl.” 

She nods, dips her head to look at her hands and chews the inside of her bottom lip. 

“But my friend’s a little… trigger happy, so to speak.” The metaphor sends a shiver across Cameron’s skin and she closes her eyes against the distinct urge to _run_. “But I have another idea.” 

This guy has set her up, she knows it. He’s painted her a dark picture and now he’s giving her an out. And she plays right into his hand because she knows she doesn’t have any other choice. “Yeah? What’s that?” 

“It’s simple, Miss Howe.” He pauses, his arm draped across the back of his chair. He _knows_ he’s got her and it sets her teeth on edge, to be trapped this way. “You do something for us, we do something for you. A deal. A partnership of sorts.” 

“I don’t make deals with anonymous suit-and-tie agencies who blackmail me.” 

“Aw, come on now, this ain’t blackmail.” He opens his arms and gestures to the file he has played out on the table. “This is evidence! My name is John Bosworth and this here’s the FBI. We’ve been watching you very closely, Miss Howe.” 

Cameron laughs. The whole thing is so far-fetched she couldn’t have made it up on her own. They probably want her to beef up their security, reinforce their firewall—probably want to sell her and her skills to the federal government—and really, what is she supposed to say? There isn’t much that’s worse than prison. “What’s the deal.”

This guy, John Bosworth, his eyes are alight and his smile is a mile wide as he pulls a photograph from the bottom of his paper file and holds it out for her to see. The picture is grainy, black and white and zoomed in, but the face is easy enough to make out. 

“Who is that?” The face in front of her is from a traffic cam. The man in the photo, he’s got angled features and a pointed chin and his hair is windblown. He’s wearing a leather jacket with a button down shirt that’s rolled up to his elbows. The angle is awkward, but he’s looking almost directly at the camera with a self-aware, self-satisfied smirk. Cameron makes no move to take the photo and so John Bosworth puts it down in front of her. 

“This here is Joe MacMillan. We want you to help us catch him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's [my tumblr](http://www.ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com) if you want to say hi :)


	2. Cracked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cameron's phone vibrates in her pocket and points her to a small gallery on the edge of the city. She’s rigged her terminal at the FBI not only to bypass all her network restrictions, but to continually monitor the Bureau’s dedicated Joe MacMillan data stream and push all content to her cell phone. They’ve got constant feeds from both public and privately owned surveillance cameras all over the city, live facial recognition and credit card traces— and all of it is slipped discretely into the palm of her hand. 
> 
> Crack— v. to break into a secure system for personal gain, as a form of protest, or to do damage.

It’s been a week. Seven full days, and not one of them has passed without Cameron wishing she’d spat in John Bosworth’s face and just gone to prison. She wonders if maybe she can change her mind, but there’s probably some super-secret FBI contract wherein her soul now belongs to the _Good State of Texas and U-S-of-A_. Bosworth assures her that once Joe MacMillan is safely in prison, she’ll be free to go— her new name and her clean record left intact. She holds on to that hope on the off chance it’s actually true, mostly because she knows there’s no other way she’ll make it through this. 

She’s got her own security detail— the same two body guards from the arcade have been posted outside her apartment. Every morning they escort her to Headquarters on the seventeenth floor of the Renaissance Tower and at five PM every evening they drive her home, leering in the rear-view mirror the whole way. And when it’s not the bodyguards watching her, it’s probably some lucky low-level agent at the Bureau— she knows her computer and internet access are monitored, and she’s pretty sure her apartment has been bugged, but she’s playing nice for now. 

She’s spent her days _at the office_ doing research… mostly. She could almost pretend she’s got a regular desk job if it weren’t for the American flag mounted proudly on every wall, the official seal of the FBI on every computer screen, every piece of paper, every workstation. Not to mention the stares she gets from every suit who walks by her desk—as if she doesn’t stand out enough in her old jeans and combat boots. That all might even be tolerable if everyone there wasn’t so fucking _patriotic_ , so blindly dedicated to fidelity, bravery, and integrity. 

She blasts her music near top volume and when anyone complains about the noise, she simply points them in Bosworth’s direction. When he comes to tell her to keep it down all she says is, “It helps me focus.” It’s only half true (plus, really enjoys pissing off the suits [seriously, does it come standard for every employee?]) but it seems to do the trick. Apparently, this Joe MacMillan guy is so important Bosworth and whoever he works for are willing to risk the sanity and cooperation of every other person on the floor. 

Cameron finds out pretty quickly she can get away with a lot— except in her downtime. No one’s explicitly said so, but she’s pretty sure she’s under house arrest. She can’t catch a cab or take the train home and she can’t leave her apartment without Dumb and Dumber following close behind. She tried going out for Korean food the other night and one of her body guards (she still doesn’t know their names) said he would go pick it up for her. 

She’d compliment the service if she didn’t feel like a caged lion. 

She ends up pacing her living room most nights, or else launching her Terminal app and watching the activity of her new monitoring software (courtesy of the FBI). It’s disguised as a browser cache for Chrome, which would be pretty clever if it hadn’t been saved in the wrong folder. 

She edits the code and privileges so it records only dummy activity: fake emails, bogus Dark Web browsing activity and queries to the FBI’s databases. Nothing worthwhile, but she gives them just enough to let them know she knows they’re watching. And if they think it's real, well, they have worse on her already. And hey, if they think she’s an idiot, maybe they’ll fire her.

It’s not like she could find anything in their system, anyways. Her access to their network is so heavily restricted her first search of ‘Joseph MacMillan’ brings up nothing more than his driver’s license, social security, and financials. 

She could have found all this on her own, but it doesn’t get her or the FBI any closer to _catching_ him. She ends up coding— and ultimately spends her afternoon playing— a game of snake she's uploaded to the network. If they want to wast her time on this bullshit, she can waste theirs, too.

It’s just after six PM on a Friday when she slips her security detail for the first time. She tells her guards she needs to run to the convenience store on the corner for some tampons because _this is an emergency_. They’re too embarrassed to go for her and they stand watch at the top of the aisle, their backs respectfully turned. 

Such courtesy.

She sneaks around the perimeter of the store, swipes a straw sunhat from a nearby rack and simply walks out the front door. From there, she catches the subway heading towards the Arts District. 

She ditches the sunhat in the first trashcan she finds. She’s not worried about being tracked or spotted. She _might_ have altered the Bureau's facial recognition program to replace all the physical identifiers in her file with those of (not short per se, but slightly) shorter, balding, middle-aged men. But more than likely it’s just a coding error. Writing software is a tricky thing and she's not surprised they're having a hard time with it. She’ll offer to fix the bug next time she’s in the office. 

Cameron's phone vibrates in her pocket and points her to a small gallery on the edge of the city. She’s rigged her FBI terminal not only to bypass all her network restrictions, but to continually monitor the Bureau’s dedicated Joe MacMillan data stream and push all content to her cell phone. They’ve got constant feeds from both public and privately owned surveillance cameras all over the city, live facial recognition and credit card traces— and all of it is slipped discretely into the palm of her hand. 

The gallery is hosting a small art exhibit when she shows up. She doesn’t exactly fit the dress code in her ripped Fragility Tour T-shirt, skinny jeans and a grey zip-up, but she’s used to sticking out in a crowd and she’s learned how to make it work to her advantage. She bluffs her way inside and gracefully accepts a complimentary flute of champagne. 

At this point, she’s seen enough pictures of Joe MacMillan to spot him from across a crowded room— and she does— easily. Not that he’s made it difficult. He’s wearing dark jeans and a leather jacket, like maybe he wasn't invited to this thing, either. She inserts herself into the crowd, sipping her champagne and staring quizzically at each canvas on the wall. She moves around the room, making sure to keep two paintings between her and her mark as the crowd rotates. 

The exhibit is a hodgepodge collection of impressionism and modern art, each piece wholly unimpressive and ridiculously fucking expensive. She’s been staring at the same painting for a while, her head tilted sideways, only half-heartedly trying to _get it_ and she hardly notices someone has come to stand beside her. 

It’s the voice that really snaps her out of it—it’s low and melodic and so close she nearly spills her champagne.She looks up and Joe MacMillan is standing there, looking between her and the painting. Cameron is at a loss— honestly, she'd planned to just watch the guy, maybe listen in on a conversation or two. She hadn't planned on actually _talking_ to him.

But here he is. He's taller than she expected. 

"What do you think?" 

"Sorry?"

"Of the painting. What do you think?"

"Oh, yeah. It’s um… it’s interesting." 

Joe MacMillan laughs and it's a canned, automatic kind of sound. "This isn't exactly your thing, is it?" 

"Oh, no. I _love_ staring at overpriced splashes of paint and mingling with the most obnoxious and pretentious of the Dallas elite." 

He smirks, a slow slide of a half smile, and turns away from the painting. "I'm Joe."

"Cameron." She reaches out and takes the hand he offers. His grip is firm and his hand is warm and he slips it into his pocket when she lets it go. 

"See that woman?" He points vaguely across the room with his flute of champagne. "The redhead in the purple dress? That's Louise Lutherford.”

Cameron sees her. She's standing at the center of a large circle of black suits and rapt stares. Cameron watches for a while as she gestures wildly, her jewelry sparkling and her smile a million watts. "You know her?" 

"She owns this gallery." 

Cameron coughs out a laugh and covers it by taking a sip of champagne. "Somehow I'm not surprised." Joe laughs with her. It sounds real this time, like it's been earned.

Joe looks at Cameron and cringes dramatically. "She's also my date for the evening."

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry. Did someone set you up?" 

"It's more of a business transaction." 

"I hope for your sake she's better with money than she is with art." 

"She's an excellent business woman— like a shark— but she's not someone I'm interested in getting into bed with." The smile Joe flashes is sharp and dangerous and a shiver runs over Cameron's skin. She raises an eyebrow, turns her back from the milling gallery crowd and moves on to the next piece mounted on the wall. Joe follows, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his champagne. His steps are slow but his stride is wide and he just oozes easy confidence. 

They stand in silence together for a minute more, Cameron tipping her head this way and that as she appraises the painting. A crowd of patrons amble in their direction, their gowns and pressed suits swishing lightly as they go. 

"Do you wanna get out of here?" His voice is close to her ear, soft but gravelly and all but disguised by the swelling rumble of polite conversation. 

She looks up and sees him silhouetted by the display lights in the ceiling. ”God, yes." 

Joe smiles, all angles and teeth, and downs the rest of his champagne in one go. Cameron follows him as he weaves his way through the crowd and towards the back of the gallery. She places her empty flute beside his on a table piled with trays of hors d'oeuvres. His eyes are bright as he turns back to scan the crowd before pushing open the door. Cameron feels giddy—like she’s sneaking out of the house on a school night. Joe holds the door for her as she turns to look over her shoulder. Louise Lutherford is standing near the center of the gallery, her mouth a terse line of red lipstick and her eyes locked on Cameron and Joe.

It’s dark when they step into the alley behind the gallery. "I know a bar not too far from here," Joe MacMillan is facing the street, the dim halogen bulb that lights the alley angling onto his shoulder and his cheekbone and the shell of his ear and leaving the rest of him in shadow. All at once she remembers that he's a wanted criminal, that she can't be seen with him, that she's supposed to be hunting him. 

He's pinned her with a sharp stare and she has the distinct feeling she's not the one doing the hunting. 

Cameron sets her jaw and focuses on the tingle of champagne in her stomach. She can't leave now; she's so close. All this would be for nothing if she goes home before she's learned anything about him.

So she nods. "Alright." There's that smile, again— the one that has her pulse thrilling with excitement, even despite the knowledge that she’s going to be burned for this later—or maybe it’s even because of it. 

He leads the way out onto the street and she sighs, tension she didn't know she was carrying easing from her shoulders as she pulls her hood over her hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know about you, but I spent most of season 2 waiting for Joe and Cameron to be in the same room again. I didn't want to waste too much time, here. 
> 
> here's my [tumblr](http://ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com). come and say hi :)


	3. Authentication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joe smiles, confident, like he’s got her all figured out. “So tell me, _Cameron the coder_. Do you usually sneak into private events?"
> 
> "Oh, what. Am I in trouble?" Joe's eyes are dark and his lips are turned up in a smirk. It promises nothing, but it says plenty and it answers Cameron's question just fine. 
> 
> Authentication— n. the mechanism which confirms the identity of users trying to access a system.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's taking me a while to update this story, and I'm sorry! but if you're still with me on this, you'll notice the rating went up...  
> enjoy :)

“So are you an art collector or something?” The bar Joe brought her to isn't crowded, exactly, but it's loud enough that Cameron has to lean in close in order to speak and be heard.

"What?" They’re seated in a booth in the back corner, where the paint on the walls is faded and chipping from years of cleaning. 

“I said—“ She’s nearly shouting, leaning over the table and ready to repeat herself when Joe holds up a finger. 

He stands up and takes both their empty mugs with him. While he's gone Cameron pulls out her phone, uses her connection to tap in to the Bureau's network and does a quick search on Louise Lutherford. She slips her phone back into her pocket as Joe walks back, two fresh drafts in hand. Instead of returning to his seat he slides onto the bench beside her. "Sorry," He gives her a charming smile. "What were you saying?" 

"I said, are you an art collector?" 

"Why do you ask?" 

“You said you were doing business with the gallery owner. So?” 

Joe shrugs. “You could call me a collector. What about you, what do you do?” 

Now it’s Cameron’s turn to shrug. “Coder.” Is what she tells him. Vague, sure, but he's not telling her the whole truth either.

"Software?" 

She nods. 

“You any good?” He’s sitting close beside her, enough that she can feel the heat coming off his leg and his arm where they’re almost pressed against hers, see how his pupils are dilated in the dim light of the bar. 

She laughs, picks up her beer and says, “Good enough that I’ve been hired before I even finished my engineering degree.” 

“Who hired you?”

“I can’t tell you that,” she says from behind the rim of her mug.

He smiles, confident, like he’s got her all figured out. “So tell me, _Cameron the coder_. Do you usually sneak into private events?"

"Oh, what. Am I in trouble?" 

Joe's eyes are dark and his lips are turned up in a smirk. It promises nothing, but it says plenty and it answers her question just fine. "I'm curious what makes a person crash a stuffy party like that one. It wasn't exactly your crowd." 

"You didn't seem to fit in too well, either." 

"I don't pay attention to the dress code, is all."

“So what makes you so sure I wasn't invited? Maybe I'm like you. Maybe I just don't own a dress, either." Joe laughs— shoulders shaking, head thrown back, all-out laughter.

"You're interesting." He's still smiling, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. His eyes are bright, even in the darkness of their corner booth, and they're burning straight through Cameron. He angles toward her, puts one arm up over the back of the booth and twirls his mug on the table with the other. 

“That doesn’t mean much. I’ve seen the people whose circle you run in.” 

”What, you don’t think so?" 

She smirks. "I like myself enough that I don't need you to tell me so." 

“Fair enough. But I mean it anyway." Cameron wonders if this is his play: buy a girl a drink, tell her she's interesting and hope for the best. In her periphery, she can see Joe's eyes flick from her face to where her hands are making patterns in the condensation on her glass. He's watching her. He’s paying attention. She’s bursting with nervous energy, can feel her pulse against the glass of her mug, but she digs around the nerves and she’s almost surprised to find that she’s not scared. 

Maybe it’s the beer, or maybe it’s the fact that she’s made it this far, but she feels bold and so she turns to face him. "What exactly is your game, Joe MacMillan? You don't collect art, but you _are_ a collector. You go to fancy events held by important people, but you leave early, and you like to piss people off."

"What makes you think I like to piss people off?" 

Cameron speaks carefully. She says only what she knows and lets him assume the rest. ”The look on Louise Lutherford's face when we left the gallery. She may be a shark, but she strikes me as the kind of woman who likes to be wooed before she'll do business. Maybe you don’t like her, or maybe you just didn't like the information she was selling.” 

Cameron takes a sip of her beer, waits for a beat before she turns back to Joe.

The way he’s looking at her— eyes wide, eyebrows raised, lips parted just slightly— this is exactly what she was hoping for. The thrill starts to cover the nerves pushing her heart faster. She pulls out her best, most confident smirk. “It was you who said I crashed the party. Not me.” 

“So what were you there for? To buy or sell?” 

“A little bit of both, I guess, depending on the topic at hand.” 

“And what if I said I had a job that would benefit from someone like you?”

She knows she has to be careful here. She can’t assume anything, needs to get a better idea for the game before she digs herself a hole she can’t climb out of. “Someone like me?” 

“Someone who knows software. Someone who knows this world, who’s played the game and isn’t afraid to go up against the big players.” 

“What’s the job?” 

Joe leans in closer, eyes flicking briefly toward the rest of the bar. “I need help getting into a secure network. It’s no small job, but the payday will be more than fair. What do you say?” 

Cameron smirks, she can’t help it. This whole evening has gone better than she’d ever hoped it might. “I say you’ve got yourself a fine piece of modern art.” 

Joe leans down, puts his mouth right by Cameron’s ear and his voice is deep and smooth when he says, “Follow me.” 

A second later he’s out of the booth and walking along the back wall of the bar. He stops and turns around. His eyes are shadowed by the heavy set of his brows and the poor lighting, but he stares at her like he knows she hasn’t been able to bring herself to stand up yet. She does though. 

She stands and follows him and he leads her to a short hallway in the opposite corner, shadowed heavily and quiet after the din of the bar. Joe pins her with a heated stare and for the first time tonight she feels paranoid. His hand is like a vice on her arm and she’s backed against the wall. Her mind is quick to supply visions of knives and handguns hidden beneath his leather jacket, but instead his free hand moves to the back of her head. 

His fingers catch and grip the short hair there and he tips her face upwards. The skin of his hands is burning through her zip-up and against her scalp. His lips are searing when they press against hers, hard and fast and demanding. He presses his chest to hers and pushes her thighs apart with one of his own and before Cameron can think, there are fires springing up all along her body, burning through her clothes and against the palms of her hands when she reaches up to grip his shoulders. 

Cameron’s heart is jackhammering against her sternum and all the air is sucked out of her lungs, leaving her lightheaded and too warm and ready for more. 

She pushes him away by the shoulder and he stumbles, his hands wrenched away from her and left hanging in the air. His face is dark, his expression rapidly switching from dangerous to confused. Cameron takes a second to catch her breath and let her skin cool and he stands there. She smiles from the corner of her mouth and turns toward the men’s room. 

She waits with her back against the door, watches the danger creep back into Joe’s face as he turns to follow. One step and he’s pressed against her again, his mouth crushing against hers and his teeth scraping along her bottom lip. 

He turns the doorknob by her hip and pushes her inside. Cameron peels her sweatshirt off and watches the broad stretch of Joe’s shoulders as he locks the door. He turns around and the fluorescent lights wash out his skin, make his eyes look almost green. 

He practically tears off his jacket and flings it to the floor as he stalks toward her, raises his hands to grip her by the hips and pull at the button of her pants. She reaches around him, runs her fingers across his belt loops, lets herself breathe when she doesn’t find any weapons tucked there.

He’s pushing against her shoulder and pulling, turning her to face the counter. In the dingy mirror, she can see him make quick work of his fly before he reaches around her hips, meets her eyes in the mirror and slips his hand beneath her underwear. 

It’s just a tease, though. He smiles and rubs it in to the curve of her shoulder, around the stretched neckline of her T-shirt. She gasps and watches as he licks, brings her hand up to grasp at his hair when he sinks his teeth in— sharp and deep, but not enough to break the skin. She scrapes his scalp and pulls at his hair with one hand while the other moves behind her to grip his cock where it’s pressing through his unbuttoned jeans.

The smirk on his lips is pressed to the skin of her neck and he reaches into his pocket. Alarm bells sound somewhere beneath the steam clouding her brain, but it’s just a foil packet and Cameron pulls her hand from his pants. Instead she pushes at her own before reaching up and leaning her weight on the mirror in front of her. 

Joe’s palm presses to the bare skin of her hip like a branding iron and fire sparks on her skin everywhere he’s touching her; on her hip and her shoulder and at the insides of her thighs and finally— finally between her legs. 

Joe is still for a moment and his breath tickles at the base of Cameron’s neck. “I thought the getting into bed comment was just a metaphor,” she laughs. “Do you always conduct business this way?” She ignores the breathiness of her voice, focuses instead on how Joe can’t reply right away, watches his face in the mirror as she angles her hips back and squeezes. He moans, low and dirty and right in her ear and starts to move.

Joe’s hands slip beneath her shirt, brushing flame across the skin of her belly and her chest. Cameron watches in the mirror as he traces upwards, along her sternum, until he reaches her neckline, her shirt still stretched and pulled to the side to show the teeth marks on her shoulder. His palm spreads across her collarbone, his fingers pressing into the crook of her shoulder.

“I don’t want to talk about business anymore,” His voice is all gravel and smoke and he moves his other hand from her hip, down to tease along where he’s hot and throbbing inside her. She moans, closes her eyes against the sight of her own flushed cheeks, of Joe’s teeth nipping at her neck and her ear. His arms are tight around her, his fingers pressing crescent moons into the skin near her neck and teasing circles, stoking the fire that reaches low in her belly. 

It’s not long before Joe’s hips are snapping faster against hers, the force of it pushing her closer to the mirror. She drops her head, leans her shoulders down and plants both hands on the glass. She pants as Joe takes advantage of the wider angle, his thrusts quicker, harder, sharper.

His hands move back to her hips, all ten fingers pressing distinct bruises to her skin as he pulls her against him each time he pushes in. 

Cameron’s eyes are squeezed shut, her head pressed against the inside of her arm when she comes. Joe goes stone-still when she does, his breath stuttering and his hands gripping tighter before his entire body goes slack. 

The bathroom echoes with the sound of their breathing while they pull their pants up, straighten their shirts. Joe picks up his jacket and hands Cameron her zip-up. His hair is mussed, his cheeks are tinged pink and he’s giving her the filthiest smirk she thinks she’s ever seen. 

While she’s pulling the sweatshirt on, Joe pulls his cellphone from his jacket pocket, taps the screen a few times and hands it out to her. There’s a contact card on the screen, her name already typed into the first field. She adds her number and hands the phone back to him.

“I’ll contact you.” His voice is deep and almost totally recovered from the husky, desperate sound of his orgasm. He slips the phone back into his pocket. 

“About the job?” 

There’s that smile again; his lips are flushed from all their kissing and moaning and biting and they curl at the corners to reveal his teeth— dangerous and sharp and completely lewd. “I’ll contact you,” He says again. 

Cameron finds she doesn’t care whether it’s about business or… whatever this was. She nods and gives him one last look-over— his messy brown hair, the stains of sweat just beginning to wet the front of his shirt, and down all the way to his feet. Then she steps past him and moves to unlock the bathroom door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been tagging some [inspiration](http://ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com/tagged/deadlock) for this story on tumblr, if you care to check it out :)


	4. Control Sequence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cameron isn't scared. It's past 2am, the trains aren't running anymore and it seems like every other street light has gone dark, but she's not scared. She's paranoid, sure, but anyone in her situation would be crazy not to be. Messing with the FBI a little is one thing. Harmless really— no damage done— but this is something entirely different. 
> 
> Control Sequence— n. a string of characters used to control the operation of a peripheral device.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guys! [LoveActuallyFan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveActuallyFan/pseuds/LoveActuallyFan) made the most amazing cover art for this series! she's [therepressedcreative](http://www.therepressedcreative.tumblr.com) on tumblr and her art blog is [plotbunniesincolour](http://www.plotbunniesincolour.tumblr.com)!
> 
> also, I lied. this is going to be way longer than five chapters.   
> enjoy!

[](http://s484.photobucket.com/user/ofplanet_earth/media/tumblr_nuxcjzMgma1udd4z9o1_540_zpswzcvz4bf.jpg.html)   
[](http://s484.photobucket.com/user/ofplanet_earth/media/tumblr_nuxcjzMgma1udd4z9o2_540_zpsdmeus55a.jpg.html)   
[](http://s484.photobucket.com/user/ofplanet_earth/media/tumblr_nuxcjzMgma1udd4z9o3_540_zpsshca6zra.jpg.html)

Cameron isn't scared. It's past 2am, the trains aren't running anymore and it seems like every other street light has gone dark, but she's not scared. She's paranoid, sure, but anyone in her situation would be crazy not to be. Messing with the FBI a little is one thing. Harmless really— no damage done— but this is something entirely different. 

She hurries, but she doesn't run. She makes sure she isn't followed without looking suspicious. 

Or maybe she does look suspicious, but she can't bring herself to care now that she's burst through the front door of her building and can finally _breathe_. The stairs, she takes more slowly. The adrenaline that had fueled her all night, since before she'd even reached the art gallery now seeps from her bones and she’s left feeling exhausted.

She slips her key into the lock of her apartment but the door is wrenched open before she can turn the deadbolt. She's yanked inside by the arm and sent spinning. Vaguely, she recognizes that Body Guard Number One is in her kitchen, his grin wide and his eyes bright. 

Her head hits the drywall and her vision spots in the time it takes her to remember to breathe. Somewhere in the spaces of her mind that have gone shock-blank, she knows that struggling only makes this hurt worse. She knows it, but the thought skips away beneath the panic as her hand is twisted behind her back and an elbow is wedged like a knife between her shoulder blades.

There’s a voice in her ear, a commotion across the room but it all feels far away and under water as her pulse gushes in her ears. Her ribs are strained and her arm is shooting pain and Body Guard Number Two is pressing himself against her back, way too far in her personal space for her to _ever_ feel okay.

Cameron’s ears ring in the sudden quiet that settles over the room. Footsteps click hollow on the floor and her fuzzy brain wonders if she’s been set up; if somehow Joe MacMillan knows she’s setting him up. 

"That was some trick you pulled there, Miss Howe!" She would sigh in relief if she could, or if she thought this made her predicament any better. "Let her go Hank, let her go." Bosworth's voice echoes slightly in her apartment.

Her wrist is set free with a sharp show of force that's really unnecessary and _fuck_ , it almost hurts worse now that her blood is boiling and rushing back into her bruised skin. By now, Cameron’s built up enough rage to bite through the ache in her shoulder and her ribs and send her fist flying forward— and into Number Two’s waiting palm. 

He clenches his hand around her knuckles and flicks his wrist, the leverage and the force sending Cameron crumbling to the floor and she groans, “Fuck you, that’s my typing hand.” The fire in her veins is undercut by the dizziness in her head and the ache in her joints and the fading terror in her chest.

"Now, I've tried to work with you on this,” Bosworth is standing a few feet away, still wearing a three piece suit even though it’s almost three in the morning. “I don't want to see you behind bars any more than you want to rot in jail, but now you're just forcing my hand."

Cameron is slumped against the wall, holding her wrist against her chest. His choice of words is not lost on her. She's pouting smoke from her nose and flinging unspoken profanities at all three of them.

Bosworth puts his hands in the pockets of his slacks and continues. ”So imagine my surprise when I find out that not only have you escaped protective custody—“ Cameron snorts and it’s so worth it to see the look on Bosworth’s face. Protective custody, her ass. 

“Not only have you manipulated government records and resources, but you've run straight into the enemy's waiting arms! We've got 'round the clock eyes on Joe MacMillan— but you had to know that already! If you had some master plan, it wasn't thought out very well."

"I can explain—"

"Oh, this is gonna be good. Go on, sweetheart, explain." Cameron's hackles go up and she can't help but think, for maybe the thousandth time, that she'd be better off in prison. 

"You can't expect me to help you if you don't give me anything to work with," She tries to keep her face neutral, tries to keep the venom and the shakes out of her voice, but the grin on Body Guard Number One tells her she's not doing a very good job. 

"We gave you access to our vast network of resources! That ain't nothing." 

“Oh please. you gave me access to shit. The only useful information I have, I found on my own. If you want to catch this guy, you're going to have to do more than sit around and watch him." 

"And you thought that was your call to make, huh? You thought that out of all the trained professionals in my employ, you were the most qualified to go out and engage this man?" 

Cameron laughs. Bosworth visibly bristles and the satisfaction it brings almost makes this whole getting-ambushed-in-her-apartment thing worth it. Number two takes half a step forward, his hands squeezed tight into fists at his side and indignant rage boiling on his forehead and Cameron is _so close_ to starting a fight she knows she’ll lose. 

“What I thought was that all your _trained professionals_ reek of law enforcement so bad he’d see them coming a mile away. I'm not some suit going under cover— this is my world. So yeah, I think that makes me qualified to play the part." 

Well, half of it is true. Sure, she altered her identity. Sure she's got a handful of misdemeanors and a felony under her belt, but this world— the one where Joe MacMillan trades information for money and hires criminals to do his dirty work— this is a whole other ball game. But John Bosworth doesn’t need to know how far out of her comfort zone she is. Cameron sets her jaw and doesn’t break his stare, tries her best to hold her own authority from her place on the floor.

Bosworth crosses his arms in front of his chest and tips his chin so he's looking down his nose at her. "Go on," 

“I have him right where I want him. I've got his attention, I've got his trust. And I'm willing to bet that if I check my phone, I'll have his number, too." 

Here, Bosworth’s face changes. Nevermind that she’s produced more in one night than he probably has in years, but she did it all without his instruction or approval and _that_ must really make him squirm. 

Cameron watches as he reels himself in, keeps his temper in check— as much as she's pissed him off already, she hasn't reached his breaking point. At least not yet. "Check," his voice is clipped and sharp and she hesitates. "I said check your goddamn phone!" 

"Okay, okay!" Slowly and with one hand in the air, she pulls her cell phone from the pocket of her hoodie. She wonders if there's a patron saint of people in way over their head— if she doesn't have a message from Joe, if she doesn't have any proof that her unlawful excursion actually yielded results, she's totally screwed. 

But there is a message there, and it's from an unknown number. 

_"I had fun tonight.”_ She keeps her face impassive, because this isn't personal: this is business and she’s got an audience. 

_"who's this?”_  
sent to: unknown

She waits for a reply and turns her attention to Bosworth and her two body guards, who are all varying degrees of furious and waiting impatiently. Her phone vibrates and she reads the response. 

_"It's Joe. From the art gallery.”_ She digs up her best _I told you so_ smile and holds up her phone for Bosworth to see. 

"Shit," he mutters, and Cameron tries her best not to look smug— she does, really, but it doesn't work very well. Bosworth pulls his own cell from his pocket, dials a number and holds it to his ear. While it rings he looks at Cameron and says, "Looks like you've got yourself a get out of jail free card." and he turns to pace her living room. 

Her tailbone is starting to hurt from sitting on the cheap wood composite floors. She fidgets, tries to get up, but her _protective custody_ take a choreographed step forward and she puts her hands up again. “Whoa, down boys. You've done enough damage already." She slouches again, all her fresh bruises throbbing dully.

Bosworth is still on the phone, pacing and muttering and looking very unhappy. Cameron picks up her phone again and starts typing. 

_"oh, hey”_  
sent to: joe from the art gallery

"Put that cell phone down, sweetheart. You’ve officially run out of leash room." Bosworth is stalking towards her and holding out his hand, flexing and curling his fingers in a _gimme_ sort of motion. 

"You're kidding, right?" 

Bosworth turns back to his phone to mutter a quick “I’ll see you soon,” before reaching out for her cell again. “From here on out, you don’t make a move unless I say so. Come on.” 

Cameron stares at him for a second because _seriously?_ What is she, a fucking teenager? But he doesn’t relent and she finds herself handing over the phone, but not before very deliberately locking it. Let’s see him or any of his _trained professionals_ try and crack her password. 

“Hank, keep an eye on the front door. I got Donna coming down and I don’t wanna be here any longer’n I have to. And you—“ He raises his voice as he turns to where Cameron is standing up, “You stay right there.” 

“This is my apartment!” God, she really might as well be in prison. “Can I at least take a shower?” She smells like beer and sweat and men’s bathroom and if she has to stay up all night, she should at least be comfortable. 

He waves his hand in dismissal and she _finally_ gets up off the floor. She gives Bosworth and Body Guard Number One a wide berth as she crosses the living room to the bedroom. What she sees stops her dead just before the doorway.

The whole room is a mess. Her drawers have been dumped, her closet emptied, everything from under her bed has been strewn across the floor and her computer… her computer is in pieces. 

“Are you fucking kidding me!” 

“Just a precaution.” Bosworth shrugs, but there’s a sly smile on his face that says he’s happy to consider it revenge. His goon is grinning, eyes dark and sadistic and Cameron shivers. She doesn’t want to ever find out what it’s like to be on the wrong end of that guy’s bad mood. 

She groans. It’s going to take her for _ever_ to put her computer back together again, but for now, she steps carefully over her motherboard and logic board— seriously, what did they think was inside there?— and picks some clothes up off the floor. 

Joe MacMillan had better be worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I reblog lots of H&CF and inspiration on [tumblr](http://www.ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com). come and say hi :)


	5. Clone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clone— n. (of software or hardware) a device or program that operates the same as, or serves the same purpose as another device or program.  
> v. to copy or imitate another object.
> 
> Cameron half-expects her apartment to be empty when she gets out of the shower. It's wishful thinking, but she definitely doesn’t expect to see a dozen people in pressed slacks, jackets and ties crowded in her tiny living room. “Okay seriously. Do you people _own_ any other clothes?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just really needed Cameron and Joe to be back in the same room.  
> things are going to start happening more quickly, now.

Cameron half-expects her apartment to be empty when she gets out of the shower. It's wishful thinking, but she definitely doesn’t expect to see a dozen people in pressed slacks, jackets and ties crowded in her tiny living room. “Okay seriously. Do you people _own_ any other clothes?”

“There you are, Miss Howe! We’d begun to worry you’d jumped out the bathroom window.” Bosworth is sitting at her kitchen table, a woman she’s never met sitting next to him. 

“I thought about it, but then your guys on the street would have dragged me back in the front door.” Really, all she did was stand under the hot spray of the shower until her skin turned red and the mirror had fogged. She doesn’t say that her arm is still sore from Douchebag Number Two’s friendly greeting, or that her wrist is throbbing from his brutish version of a handshake.

Leaning back in his chair, he touches his temple and points to her, a small and crooked smile lighting his face like this is some sort of lesson he's taught her. “Now you’re getting it.” But there are agents down on the street, and half of Cameron’s head is still trying to catch up— still trying to figure out how it happened that this is her life now. 

Bosworth sips from a glass of water, one he’s helped himself to from the cupboard by the sink. On the table are the disassembled parts of her cell phone spread out over the wood composite top. “You know water and electronics don’t mix, right?” 

He doesn’t take the bait, just gives her this smug look and takes another sip, smacks his lips and sighs dramatically. She half-expects him to prop his feet up on the table, but instead he says, “Cameron, meet Donna.” 

“I hope she knows what she’s doing. That phone is the only connection you have to your guy.”

Donna looks up from the circuit board with a roll of her eyes. Her voice is dry and unimpressed. “Would you rather I just put your SIM card into a regulation bureau model? All your new hardware comes standard.” 

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not.” Cameron is holding tightly to the small comforts she still has left— and there aren’t many of them. She’s sure they’ve cloned her cell and the solid state drive in her laptop, but thinking of how long it will take them to crack her encryption brings a small smile to her face.

She watches Donna work for a minute, maybe two, before the realization dawns on her. “Oh my god, you’re installing a babysitter.” What Donna has in her hand is definitely a microphone and there’s some sort of transponder already seated on the circuit board. 

“Bingo!” Bosworth leans forward to wave his fingers at the spread on the table. “That little do-hickey there records audio, and this one—this one is extra special. It tracks your location and all your digital activity, packages it up all neat and tidy and sends it straight to my guys downtown.” 

Donna puts down the circuit board and starts to reassemble the body. “There are no restrictions in place,” She says, like it’s supposed to be some sort of consolation. “You can do whatever you want, but it’s all logged and uploaded to our secure server. And since we’ll be tracking your location in real time, backup will never be far away.” 

“You mean Big Brother and his army of dancing monkeys,” Cameron crosses her arms with a frown. 

“Oh, quit your moping. This is the best deal you’re gonna get.” Bosworth chides from across the table. 

Cameron is _not_ moping. This all sucks so bad, but she’s not a fucking child. 

“Plus,” Donna goes on like Bosworth isn’t treating Cameron like she’s five, “you’ll never have to wear a wire, which keeps your risk in the field to a minimum.” 

“And—“ Bosworth snaps his fingers and calls across the room to one of the suits. A second later, the monkey is handing over Cameron’s laptop, reassembled already and apparently unharmed. “We got the same tech installed here, plus a program that’ll get you into our databases remotely. No more hacking and breaking in through back doors.” 

“Goodie.” 

“You are the only one to use this, got it?” 

“Duh.” He holds the laptop out and Cameron reaches for it, has to catch it with both hands when her right fails. There’s a flicker of what might be concern in the shadow of Bosworth’s brow, but Cameron holds the laptop against her chest, crosses her arms across the aluminum and sets her jaw. “So what’s the plan now?” 

“The plan is to salvage the shit show of you put us all in. You go about your life like nothing’s changed. Hang around your video arcade, go to class, get coffee with your friends. We’re not gonna be the only ones watching you from now on, and we can’t risk you blowing the operation by acting suspicious.” 

Cameron laughs. “Right. _I’m_ the one acting suspicious.” 

“Beg your pardon?” 

“You don’t think he’ll notice Tweedledee and Tweedledum in their sunglasses and ear pieces following me around? Or all your suits leaving my apartment at four in the morning?” 

“What part of trained professionals ain’t making sense to you? How ‘bout you just worry about your own neck and let us do our jobs, sweetheart.” 

“Gosh, I'm sorry. "Cameron fans her hand over her chest. "I was so focused on myself and my life, I completely forgot about how this affects _you_ , Bos.” 

Bosworth frowns. He stands and turns to the rest of the apartment. “Alright everyone, that’s enough. Take the morning, we’ll regroup at oh-nine-hundred.”  
 The suits start filing out— one guy drops the TV remote and another sets one of her books down on the coffee table. Soon the only ones left are Bos and Donna, who’s still busy reassembling Cameron’s phone. 

Once the door is closed, Bos turns back to Cameron and leans to plant his hands on the table. “Now you listen to me and you listen good, cause I’m only gonna say this once.”

Cameron just stands there, listening.

“I. Do not. _Need you_. You ain’t in prison but you are in no position to go bargaining with me. I will get this job done with or without your help, and taking advantage of my good nature will get you nowhere but behind bars.”

Cameron says nothing.

“Had you stuck to the plan, you wouldn’t have been out in the field at all. You got yourself into this mess and I don’t want to hear one more word of this ‘woe is me’ crap. You keep your head down and you follow your damn orders. Joe MacMillan is a shark. He gets one whiff of blood and he’ll have his hands round your neck faster’n you can say _Texas Rangers_ and there ain't much even I can do to help you. Got it?” 

His glare is dark and Cameron has to stop herself from rolling her eyes and bite back a snide comment about where his hands have been already. He is the one keeping her out of prison and now is really not the best time to go pissing him off. Instead she just stands there, glares at Bos and the dim light shining on his bald head. “Fine, got it.” 

Donna picks that moment to snap the backplate of her phone back into place and clap her hands. “Alright, well. I’m done here.” She stands and slips her arms through the sleeves of her blazer. “Go ahead,” she hands the phone to Cameron and smirks, “make sure it still works.”

She almost feels bad— almost— but she has no idea who this woman is and yeah, she’s going to make sure she didn’t accidentally erase all her shit. But the phone boots up and prompts her for her password and Cameron checks to make sure all her data is still there. 

Donna is walking towards the door with a smug look and Bosworth follows, his face still scrunched into a scowl. He stops with his hand on the knob and turns to her. “You still with me?” 

Cameron scoffs, because what he’s really asking is whether Cameron is on his side and she doesn’t think she ever was— can’t ever imagine herself being on the same side of any issue as John Bosworth. “Do I have a choice?”

He shrugs and says, “Course you do.” As much as Cameron’s been complaining, things are just starting to get interesting. So she nods, watches him leave and hurries to lock the door behind him. 

In her hand, her phone vibrates with a new message.

_“I'm getting the rest of the group together. I'll have more details soon."_  
from: joe from the art gallery

Cameron doesn't reply. Once she's checked the lock one more time, she drops her phone on the kitchen table, walks through her upturned apartment and steps over the piles of clothes and crap on the floor. She falls into bed and buries her head beneath the pillows, dreams of surveillance cameras, bathroom mirrors and jailhouse bars. 

\r_

Cameron leaves her phone on the table— barely even looks at it for two days. She walks around her apartment in silence, keeps the television on even at night, avoids the windows, trips over her own feet, runs into the kitchen counter and the bathroom door.

On the third day, she gets a phone call and it nearly gives her a heart attack.

Fuck Bosworth and his surveillance equipment. 

"Hello?" She's tired and on edge and she didn't check the caller ID before she answered. 

"Hey," The voice is smooth and deep and it takes her a minute to place it. "You haven't answered any messages."

"Oh, hey." It's Joe. Of course it's Joe, and all at once she remembers that all this paranoia has a purpose, that she's got a job to do. "Sorry, I haven't been feeling well." 

"Nothing contagious, I hope." She can practically _see_ the smile on his face. 

That same nervous energy from the bar sparks in her chest again and she grins. "I don't think so," 

"Good. I've got some people coming over tonight and I was hoping you could come." The whole thing sounds so domestic when he talks about it that way. He's not going to say anything over an open network; he's too smart to be so careless, but she feels a little silly, especially since she knows every word is being sent straight to the FBI. 

It almost makes her feel guilty. "Give me a time and a place." 

"Around five. I'll pick you up." 

"Alright." Cameron tamps down the anxiety rising in her gut. She's not naïve enough to think he wouldn't be looking into her past and her credentials, but knowing Bosworth was right about this makes her stomach turn sour. 

"I'll see you then." The call disconnects before Cameron can respond and she promptly drops the phone on the kitchen table. She gathers fresh clothes and closes herself in the bathroom. There are a dozen ways to get a visual feed from a cell phone and she doesn't trust that the FBI didn't install one of them behind her back. No way is she giving any of those assholes a free show. 

Two hours pass quickly and her phone rings again at 4:57. It's an unknown number on her screen though, and when she answers, it's Bosworth's voice that greets her. "He's about five minutes away, how you feelin'?" 

"Like I'm being used as live bait, how do you think?"

"You gotta forget about all that, get your head in the game. This is your world, remember? Act like it." 

"Right," Cameron sighs. 

"We'll be keeping an eye on you, but no tails. Tonight’s gonna be for planning— no real action. It'll be enough to have you in there as our ears."

"Okay," Somehow, knowing she's on her own eases some of the tension in her shoulders. No backup means one fewer pair of eyes on her; one less reason for Joe to be suspicious of her.

"Okay, he's a mile away now. Remember: keep your head down, stick as close to the truth as possible. Don't offer any information and don't get caught up in extraneous details."

"Yeah, I got it." Cameron picks up her jacket from the floor— she still hasn't finished cleaning the mess of it all. 

"And Cameron—" He pauses and she stands there, in the middle of her living room, waiting. "Be careful." 

She can't decide if he's actually concerned or if he's chiding her for being reckless. Either way, she doesn't need it. Doesn't want it. "Yeah, sure." She hangs up and bites her tongue around a heartfelt _fuck you_. Instead she slips her jacket on in silence— tender around her hand that’s still swollen and sore— and squares her shoulders. 

She'll be fine. She's already played this part and she's good at it— she knows she is. She's smart and she's streetwise and she knows what she's doing—

Her cell rings again and her heart beats faster. It's Joe's number on the screen, this time. She lets it ring a couple of times before she answers. "I'll be right down," 

She's ready to go— she's got her wallet and her keys in her pockets and her computer in her backpack by the door, but she counts to thirty before she moves to open the door, checks the lock twice before and starts down the steps and into the cool air outside. 

It's been days since she left the apartment and the sun feels warm and close even as it sinks behind the silhouette of skyscrapers in the distance. There's a sleek black car idling in front of her and the window rolls down as she approaches.

She ducks down to see Joe behind the wheel, sunglasses perched on his nose and his hair brushed away from his face in soft, windblown waves. His leather jacket has been replaced by a tailored blazer over a dark v-neck. The effect is decidedly less formal— and yes, much sexier— than Bosworth's dancing monkeys. 

She pushes that train of thought away— doesn't think about the FBI or the microphone in her pocket, and smiles instead. "I see you've done your homework.” She pulls the door open— keeps her right hand in her pocket so it doesn’t look suspicious— and slides onto the soft leather of the passenger's seat.

"I did. I have to say I'm impressed.” Joe nods, and she believes him. His eyes are hidden behind the sunglasses but she can feel the weight of his stare. She's not surprised, really— Cameron knows exactly what he found because she put it there— but it feels good anyway. 

"I did some research of my own, too."

The smile he flashes sends a shiver over the skin of her arms. ”I expected nothing less."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm tagging [inspiration](http://ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com/tagged/deadlock) for this story on my tumblr. feel free to say hello (hint: comments are like crack to writers. we can't get enough).


	6. Integration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Integration — v. the process of linking together different computing systems and software applications physically or functionally, to act as a coordinated whole.
> 
> All eyes are on Cameron, all judging her— though half of them are more focused more on the fact that she isn't wearing a bra than anything else. She can't wait to watch them swallow their tongues when they get to see her work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> November is national novel writing month and this year, I'm writing a collection of short stories. They'll all be focusing on Thranduil/Bard from The Hobbit. I'm sorry to say this story won't see an update for a while, but I hope you guys will give my 30 days of Barduil series a try! 
> 
> fics will be posted here, individually as part of a series.  
> you can see my [30 days of Barduil](http://www.ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com/30-days-of-barduil) page for more info. 
> 
> if you have a fic request or suggestion for me to use during the month of November, please [send me an ask](http://www.ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com/ask) and I'll add it to the list!!

Cameron isn’t sure what she was expecting, but this is definitely not it. They park on a side street in the West End and Joe pulls open the door to a quaint café, motions her inside. It’s small and warm and it definitely doesn’t scream _illegal activity_ , but then, that wouldn't be very smart.

"Hi Debbie," Joe takes off his sunglasses, folds them and hangs them in the neck of his T-shirt. The woman behind the counter has wide eyes and brown hair and she flashes a smile so bright and so sweet it makes Cameron's teeth hurt. "Thanks for letting us come in after closing." 

"Aw Joe, you know you don't gotta worry about that!" She walks toward them, flicks her wrist and gives Joe's shoulder a light tap. "You know I'd be stuck here anyway. Inventory and all that." She locks the door and flips the sign, pulls the shade down over the front window

"Well, I appreciate it just the same," Joe's smile is wide, practiced, and Cameron can see right through it.

"Your friends are all here— in the back. Can I get y'all something to drink?"

"A black coffee, if it's not too much trouble," His voice is polite and sweet; so completely unlike the way he talks to her, so far removed from the unsteady and undone sounds that echoed against the bare walls of a dingy bathroom.

"And for you?" Cameron blinks when she realizes Debbie is talking to her. 

"Um. I'll have the same. Thanks," 

Joe walks past the counter and into the café. The walls are painted a light blue and lined with rustic stars and charming little country nicknacks. The place is empty except for a group of guys sitting in the corner. Again, Cameron isn't sure what she was expecting— minions in uniforms?

There are only two empty seats at the table and Joe takes one, leaving Cameron to take the other. She shrugs off her backpack— left-handed and awkward— and sits down. All eyes are on her, all judging her— though half of them are more focused on the fact that she isn't wearing a bra than anything else. She can't wait to watch them swallow their tongues when they get to see her work.

Debbie sets down two coffees, the mugs painted with birds and flowers and perched on matching saucers. "Y'all let me know if you need anything else," She smiles and turns, her skirt swaying with her hips as she walks. The same guys who were staring at her tits turn to watch her go.

Pervs.

Cameron picks up her coffee, holds it in both hands and sips.

Joe claps his hands once and says, "Okay, let's get right to it. First thing's first: we've got some new talent joining us this time around." His voice is loud and bright and all the conversation at the table stops. "Gordon is hardware," Joe points to his left to perv number one. He's a drawn out hipster-looking guy with a beard and dark circles behind his round glasses. He looks up from his coffee just long enough to wave. "Hunt is surveillance," Perv number two sits next to Gordon. He's a clean-cut guy, looks like he's just come from his desk job— hair disheveled like he's been running his fingers through it all day, the first three buttons of his shirt undone beneath a blue sweater. "That's Kenneth—" 

"Call me Yo-Yo," says a guy with a ponytail and a PacMan T-shirt, smiling brightly from behind his beard.

"And Lev—" The guy to Cameron's right looks like he’s around her age, maybe a little younger. He’s skinny, with long dark hair and thick square glasses and he mutters a shy 'Hi,' before looking down at his lap. "They're networking and analysis. You all met Debbie; she keeps track of the books. And Cameron is software." 

Lev smiles softly at her out of the corner of his mouth and Yo-Yo is practically beaming. Hunt’s eyes narrow as he studies her and she turns her nervous smile into a smirk under the weight of it. 

Gordon is nothing but unimpressed. "No offense," he says, and Cameron's eyes nearly roll back in her head. "But all of us can write code. Why do we need her?" 

"Because Lev has been having a hard enough time keeping up with the network and the code by himself. We need more hands on this one and we need her skills."

"I'm sure you do," Gordon mutters. “Her hands and her skills.” He’s looking sideways at her, eyes flicking up and down like he’s appraising her, assessing the worth of of her _hands_ and her _skills_. Cameron glares at him as he sips his coffee. She’s used to people assuming she's slept with someone for every job or advantage she's ever had, but it still pisses her off.

"No offense," Joe crosses his arms on the table, leans his weight in and rounds on Gordon. "But you couldn't write the code we need for this job.”

Yo-Yo chuckles from across the table and Gordon glares at him over his glasses, but he doesn’t say anything else. Cameron keeps her mouth shut, only smirks as she takes another sip of her coffee. Making petty enemies with anyone on the team would only make keeping her cover harder. Plus, she’s enjoying watching him squirm.

"Anyone else have any thoughts they want to share?" Joe is still glaring at Gordon, who's looking pointedly at his coffee. "Comments, criticisms? No?" Joe makes a sweep around the table. "Good. Then we're on to establishing some ground rules.” Joe motions to Hunt, who swiftly stands and hands a cell phone to each of them. They’re cheap, but at least they have a full keyboard. Cameron tries not to wince when Hunt presses it heavily into her right hand. 

“You don’t contact each other except on these lines. You will contact me _only_ on these lines. You will not see the rest of this team at the same place except here once a week. You can collaborate and work with each other as often as you need to, but you will keep your electronic communication a minimum and you will only share data while connected to this network. You all know the nature of our work. You all understand the need for discretion. You should also be made aware that this job carries with it certain risks.”

"What kind of risks?" Yo-Yo's smile has dissolved.

"Prison, for one, but that should be a given." Cameron tries to suppress the shiver that runs up her spine, but she shakes a little. Hunt catches the motion, but she brushes off the look he’s giving her. 

She tells herself that, no matter the outcome of this job, no matter what happens to everyone else at this table, she won't be going with them. She tries not to feel guilty— tries to find solace instead— and she hopes Hunt can't see the slight twitch of her lips that might give her away. 

"Beyond that, the information we're after this time is much higher profile than what we're used to. The security will be tighter, the stakes will be higher. If we succeed, there will be people looking for us. They won't give up easily and they will justify anything if it means catching even one of us. If we fail… well. We need to do all we can to make sure that doesn't happen.”

Cameron’s heart beats faster and her cell phone sits heavy in her pocket. "Is everyone with me?" Joe looks around the table, his eyes finally falling on her. He frowns, doesn’t look away until she nods. 

"I just have one more question," Yo-Yo leans his arm on the table, the beginnings of a smirk lighting his face. "Who are we hacking?" 

There's a beat of silence,and when Cameron looks back to Joe, she can see the familiar look of a predator reflected in the set of his jaw and the gleam in his eyes. “We’re hacking the CIA.” 

\r_

Cameron isn't freaking out. She's not. She holds tightly to both her cell phones, her hands buried in her left and right pockets respectively as she follows Joe back to his car. She checks the buckle on her seat belt three times. 

They pull to a stop at a red light and he turns to her. "You alright?" His voice is heavy but somehow soft— sincere. Yet another side of the ever-surprising Joe MacMillan.

"Yeah," She smiles. They're heading back to her apartment, but the last thing Cameron wants right now is to be alone. Maybe she'll go to the video arcade when Joe drops her off. Maybe if she stays out late enough, Bosworth won't call. 

"You look a little worried is all.”

  “Just trying to figure out what to do for dinner," It's getting easier for her to lie; this one leaves no bitter taste in her mouth, adds barely any bulk to the growing wad of guilt settling in her gut. "My fridge has seen better days." 

"You like sushi?"

"I will eat literally anything that doesn't involve olives or sardines." 

“We could go to my place, have some delivered? I don’t know about you, but I don’t really feel like cooking.” Joe's lips break the stern line they've been locked in since the coffee shop. The result is a gentle smile that definitely does _not_ make Cameron's breath stutter in her chest. She studies him for a second, or until the light turns green and the car lurches forward. 

They turn down a side street and then back onto the main road, heading in the opposite direction. She didn't say yes— she didn't say anything— but she tells herself it keeps Bos off her back that much longer, that it could help give the FBI more information. Whatever. She’s not a good enough liar to convince herself this isn’t exactly what she wanted.

Joe makes a phone call and they pass the rest of the drive in silence. She watches his hands where they grip the steering wheel, his thumbs mindlessly tapping out the beat of the song on the radio.

They beat the delivery guy there by about thirty seconds. Joe declines her offer to pay for the food and leaves her alone to look around the apartment. It’s… minimalist— that's the polite word for it. The furniture is all glass and modern lines, the TV is big, the ceilings are high. The blinds are drawn, walls all the same empty shade of off-white. Her footsteps echo gently on the hardwood floor. The bedroom and the bathroom are much the same: empty. There’s a toothbrush behind the mirror, and hair product. The bedspread is charcoal grey. So are the towels. So is half his wardrobe. 

By the time Joe returns with a paper bag tucked under his arm, Cameron is standing on the opposite side of the island kitchen counter. He puts the bag in the fridge and asks, ”Do you prefer red wine or white?" 

Cameron shrugs, the chill from the fridge raising goose bumps on her bare arms. She deliberately left her jacket on the couch. "My experience with wine is limited to what other people share with me." 

"Red it is, then," He smiles and pulls two glasses form the cupboard, holds them both between the long fingers of one hand and pours. She takes a glass when he offers it and her fingers brush against his. 

He watches her as she drinks, his eyes tracing the path of her tongue when she licks her lips. "It's good,” she smirks. “Strong, dark. Full-bodied.” She's starting to enjoy this part of the game— the part where she and Joe MacMillan dance around each other like hawks, like binary stars caught in each other's orbit, constantly pulling each other in. 

"It's a Malbec." He swirls his glass and takes a sip.

"Ooh,"

"Argentinian."

"Ah, that explains it." 

"Yeah?" He's moving closer, the soft light of the kitchen casting shadows over his eyes and his teeth where they show through his grin. The effect is distinctly less sinister than it should be.

"Yeah," Cameron tips her chin to hold his stare as he begins to tower over her, leans against the island, the granite of the countertop cold and sharp against the base of her spine. 

“But you don’t know anything about wine.”

“I know what I like.” She shrugs, takes another, longer sip. 

When Cameron was eight, she tried to pick up a cast iron skillet while it was still on the stove. She dropped it, but too late; she had blisters and cracks all over her palm for weeks. Joe’s stare is like that— heavy against the curve of her throat and warm, the way the iron was warm in her hands just before it started to burn. 

But now, she doesn’t let go. Not even as he closes in, not when his gaze starts to burn her neck or when it climbs higher, to her lips. Next thing she knows, the glass has been pulled from her hand and Joe is chasing the drops of wine on her tongue and her teeth. He grips her waist, his hands hot and holding her flush against him.

The air in the apartment is freezing next to the hard press of Joe's chest and the dig of his fingers through her tank top. Blood surges in her ears and her pulse leaps beneath her skin, jumps and reaches from the pads of her fingers as she claws them through his hair.

His hands reach lower and she misses the weight of them over her hips, only to find them gripping her ass, his fingers brushing bare skin where her jeans are ripped at the crease of her thigh. She tangles Joe’s hair in her fists and pulls, bites down on the swell of his lip she’s caught between her teeth. She’s not gentle. She leaves him with scratches on his scalp and a drop of blood on his chin but she doesn’t care. 

The growl that rumbles in Joe’s throat says he doesn’t care, either. He’s lifting Cameron onto the counter like she weighs nothing, sliding her hips forward so she’s flush against his cock where it’s pressing against his jeans. She brings her knees up, holds him close between her legs and muffles her moan against his mouth. 

Her jacket is on the couch and the cell phone in the pocket has a microphone in it. It’s wrapped in army green and stuffed into her backpack on the couch, but she’d bet money Bosworth and his goons are listening with the volume as loud as it’ll go, straining their ears for any hint of a sound. 

“Bedroom,” She means to whisper, though it comes out more as a hiss when Joe pulls her hips against him again. The angle is perfect but it’s not enough and now it’s her who’s growling, clenching her teeth against the urge to just fuck him right here. 

But Joe lifts her again, holds her by the legs while she grips his waist with her thighs. Her fingers dig into his shoulders and she turns her attention to his neck, where it’s warm and smells like leather and spicy cologne. She kisses and licks and bites without drawing any blood and Joe barely makes it to the door of the bedroom before her pack is pressed to the wall. He pins her there with his hips and the pressure is maddening, but he drags his hands away from her legs and pries her arms from his neck and his shoulders. 

He’s got her splayed against the wall, only the press of his hips and the tension in her thighs holding her up, and he sets his sights on her throat again. He drags his teeth across her racing pulse, slides his hands under her tank top where they catch on her ribs as she sucks in breath after ragged breath. 

Her hands gather the hem of his shirt, going for his belt. He he pulls her hands away, presses them against the wall by her head. Her wrist is still sore from _Hank_ and his overzealous greeting three nights before, but Cameron breathes through the pain that flares, focuses instead on the heat pooling beneath his lips on her collarbone.

He pulls at the button of her jeans instead and his fingers find their way inside. She drops her head against the wall and squeezes his hips tighter between her legs, uses her feet to pull him closer. He laughs and she can feel it all along her body— against her hands where they’re buried in his hair, against her chest where he’s smudging kisses and licks across her sternum, and against her thighs where they’re starting to tremble. 

He drags her away from the wall, his hands spread over her spine and holding her against him when she slips. He lets her fall onto the bed, the charcoal comforter cool and crisp beneath her shoulders. He stands there for a minute, just staring. Her skin is flushed and her pants are undone and her mouth is hanging open as she pants. 

He peels his blazer off his shoulders. Cameron had hardly noticed he was still wearing it. He takes a step closer, grips her ankle, eases her to the edge of the bed and tugs off her sneakers. He peels the jeans from her sweaty skin and kneels. 

His hands are soft against the backs of her knees and his teeth are sharp against the inside of her thighs. He leans back to pull her panties down and throw them over his shoulder. His eyes catch the light from the table lamps and he smirks. That look has her moaning and his eyes go dark, the hunger and want and _sin_ showing in the curve of his mouth. 

His hands are around her waist when he finally leans in. He licks his lips and she arches her back, tries to angle closer to that mouth. He laughs, low and deep in his chest and grips her tighter, holding her still against the mattress. His tongue is light and searing hot against her, his chin slightly scratchy from his five o’clock shadow and Cameron’s breath is caught in her chest. She scratches at his scalp again, tries to pull him closer, to urge him on, but he takes his time as Cameron groans. 

It’s only a minute or two she lets him torture her with his lips and his tongue and the fleeting drag of his teeth. She grips his hair and pulls him away even as she cants her hips into the broad press of his tongue before it’s gone. She sits up and crawls back, pulls him onto the bed. He follows, surging forward to catch her lips between his teeth. 

It’s lewd and salty and so fucking hot. She moans, can’t be bothered to keep quiet, and pushes him down against the mattress. His jeans are tight and she wrestles with shaking fingers to get them open while she kneels above him. Joe stretches to reach into the drawer by the bed, pulls out a condom just as Cameron succeeds in tugging his pants and his boxers over his hips. 

His hands are shaking, his breath is uneven but he’s in better control than she is. It’s Joe who pulls her down onto his waiting cock, holding her there while his hips stutter and his neck arches back into the pillows. Cameron is gasping, her hands heavy against his chest, overwhelmed by the stretch and the heat of his cock. 

By the time she regains enough of her control, Joe is grinding his hips in circles against hers. She lifts up with some effort and somehow takes him deeper when she settles back down. Her legs are shaking when she rises up again and she falls forward to lean her weight on her elbows, drops her head down to taste the wine and sex clinging to Joe’s tongue. The sounds coming from that mouth are almost enough to make her come— rumbling and desperate and breathy in turns— and she swallows them down while she rides him. 

Her breath is shallow, her whole body is trembling when Joe grips her hips and arches up, pulling her down to meet each thrust. They’re so far gone; their skin is sweaty and slapping, their motions growing faster and more punishing. 

Cameron can feel the heat spreading over her flushed skin, focuses on the drag of Joe’s cock and the sharp press of his fingernails. She pushes harder, faster, against the strain in her arms and legs. Her head falls to Joe’s shoulder and she closes her teeth around his skin when she comes, biting and pulling enough to bruise. She goes slack and he holds her down on his cock, his hips taut like a zipline and his breath catching on a string of moans as he comes. 

Cameron presses a kiss to the marks her teeth have left and lets herself relax on top of him. “So,” she says. “How about that sushi?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just in case chapter three didn't warrant the 'Explicit' rating... 
> 
> feel free to leave a comment or stop by my [tumblr](http://www.ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com) to say hi :)


	7. Glue Code

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glue Code — n. any special code that acts as a go-between to make existing code compatible with other system software or hardware.
> 
> Cameron's barely shrugged off her jacket and draped it over the kitchen table when the Jaws theme starts playing from her pocket. Bosworth is calling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew! well. after a month and a half of writing nothing but Barduil (you can read all 30 of my short stories [and the several subsequent series they spawned] [here](http://archiveofourown.org/series/346025)!), I'm happy to get back to this universe. 
> 
> I'm also really excited to say I have a much clearer idea of where this story is going and how to get there! so! without further ado, here's chapter seven :)

Cameron steps through the door of her apartment just in time to watch the clock on the microwave reach midnight. She's barely shrugged off her jacket and draped it over the kitchen table when the Jaws theme starts playing from her pocket. Bosworth is calling. She considers ignoring it. She nearly walks to the bathroom to start the shower and give herself a reasonable excuse, but in the end she thinks better of it. 

"Hello?" she sighs. 

"Cameron, what the hell happened in there?" Bosworth's twang comes screeching in her ear.

"What do you mean?" Aborted explanations bubble up in her gut— any way to explain away what Bos must have heard from inside Joe’s apartment— each one is more ludicrous than the last

"We didn't hear a damn thing," Bos barks. "Not a single word from the second you got in MacMillan's car." 

Cameron scrubs the heel of her hand over her eye, relief and annoyance washing over her in equal parts. "Nothing? Not even at the coffee shop?" 

"Y'all went out for coffee? What was this, a date?" 

"What? No," Cameron scoffs, her heart surging and racing at the accusation. "I mean, there was coffee involved, but that's not— I mean— that's where he's got his whole operation set up, as far as I can tell." 

"You're tellin' me that one of the nation's most highly sought after criminals is working out of a damn _coffee shop_? No way, nuh-uh. You're shittin' me." 

"Didn't you get a location from my phone?" 

"We got zilch. Zippo. Fuck all." 

"It's weird to hear you swear. Like you're my teacher or a priest or something. It's not natural," A victorious smirk replaces the frown on Cameron’s face. She feels like she’s breathing freely for the first time in days— glad to feel like she's not on the defensive for once.

"Quit talkin' nonsense and start from the beginning."

Cameron shrugs, "I dunno, he seems to have it all figured out pretty well. It's safe, it's got a secure network. The owner is in on it." 

"What was the name of this place?" 

"I don't know, Little Village, Village shop? It's in the historic district." 

"You mean the West End? Careful Catherine, your Texas Girl costume is slipping." 

"Whatever." 

"Okay, got it. The Village Cafe. Owned by one Debbie Hall. It's a legit business, but it only popped up six months ago. The books ain't looking too good— didn't even break even last quarter, but she's got money coming in from somewhere— enough to keep her doors open." 

"I'm sure they don’t mind; less foot traffic means less risk. How did you even find all this?" 

"You're on a need to know basis. The less you can let slip to Joe MacMillan, the safer we'll all be." 

"It may surprise you to hear, but I do actually know how to keep my mouth shut. I've got secrets of my own. You don't see me blabbing them to everyone." Cameron stalks to the living room and flops down to lie on the couch.

"And yet you're still not getting classified information unless it's absolutely necessary." 

"You sure? This job they’re planning is pretty big. It'd be helpful to know what I'm dealing with, especially if you're going to be relying on me to give you information now that you've been outsmarted by a common criminal." 

"Now you listen here, darlin', you've just made two crucial mistakes. One, I have not been outsmarted. You've got another thing coming if you think I don't got more tricks up my sleeve. Two, Joe MacMillan is anything but a common criminal. You start thinking that way and you'll start to let your guard down. Do that and you're as good as caught."

"Hands around my neck faster than I can say _Texas Royals_ ," Cameron rolls her eyes. "Yeah, I got it." 

Bos laughs, a private little chuckle Cameron decides to pointedly ignore. "Now," He says. "Start at the beginning." 

\r_

Donna shows up at Cameron's front door the next morning, a goodie bag of tech and tools in one hand and two paper cups of coffee in the other. "If the call I got at four this morning was any indication, I figured we could both use a heavy dose of caffeine."

Cameron considers closing the door in her face, but eventually she steps aside and lets Donna in. She checks the hallway before closing the door and sliding the deadbolt home. 

"Getting a little paranoid?" Donna sets the tray of coffee on the kitchen table and takes off her jacket. She’s dressed down— business casual, really, but it’s a shock compared to the suits Cameron's been entertaining for the past few weeks.

"You’re so right, what reason do I have to be paranoid?" she grumbles and picks up one of the paper cups— free coffee is free coffee, no matter where it comes from. "You didn’t bring anyone with you? No bodyguards, nothing?" 

"Don't need 'em," Donna shrugs. "Can I see your phone?" 

Cameron could say no, but if the tech in her phone only spies on _her_ , then what good does it do? She sighs and stalks to the living room, snatching her phone from beneath the pillow on the couch. 

Donna raises her eyebrow, but instead of commenting, she says, "Joe must have a signal jammer. And a pretty good one if it was able to block this tech. I designed it myself. It has fallback protocols in case of signal loss, but even the satellite and radio pings were cut off." 

"Do you think he knew someone was spying on him?" 

"Don't worry. If he thought you were a mole, I don't think you'd be here right now." 

"Yeah, I guess you're right," Cameron worries at her bottom lip with her teeth and scratches her thumbnail across the paper of her coffee cup. "What do you know about him?" 

"About Joe MacMillan?" Donna looks up from the table where she's begun to take Cameron's phone apart. Again. "Only what I hear from other people. I don't see much action between my desk and the workshop." 

"What do you hear, then? No one's telling me shit." 

Donna puts down the screwdriver and angles herself to face Cameron. "Do you really want to know? If you have to get so close to him, if you're going in there on your own, do you really want all those rumors ringing in your ear?” 

"I just want to know what I'm dealing with," Cameron crosses her arms over her chest and leans against the table. 

"I don’t think office babble is going to help you there.” 

“Still,” Donna raises her eyebrow again and Cameron can’t help but to roll her eyes. She sighs. “Please?”

“Fine,” Donna sighs and pries the back off Cameron’s phone. “He’s ex military. Special ops. He’s been stationed in Iraq and Iran and Afghanistan. They say he was the best. Until he wasn’t. He turned on command, went rogue. Barely a breeze left in his wake when he disappeared. For a while there was no sign of him at all. His records had been wiped— there was no trace he’d ever existed until he showed up again two years ago.”

“He’s trying to hack into the CIA.” Cameron pulls out the chair beside Donna’s and sinks into it. 

“That’s what I’ve heard,” Donna nods and focuses on removing the old tech from Cameron’s phone.

“News must travel fast, cause I only told Bos seven hours ago.” 

“It’s been… not common knowledge, but generally accepted as fact for a while now. This isn’t the first time MacMillan’s made a grab for this information.” 

“What information?” 

“Access codes,” Donna shrugged. “Algorithms. Tactical analysis and plans.” 

“For what?” 

“That, as I’m sure Bosworth would say, is classified. Low levels like me aren’t privy to those kinds of secrets.” 

“You mean to tell me you have access to all this eavesdropping equipment, the technical knowledge to bend it to your will, and you _don’t_ listen in on top secret… secrets?” 

“Look, Cameron. Let me give you some advice, from one low-level to another. There’s a reason you don’t know everything about this operation. Start looking where you shouldn’t be and you’ll find yourself in deep shit. Bosworth meant it when he said he’d get this job done with or without you, and he's not the only one you have to worry about.” 

“What, are they going to _disappear_ me?” 

“Don’t push it, Cameron. They’ve got enough proof to have you put away for a long time, and that’s just the valid criminal charges. People higher up on the ladder than you or me have made that mistake. You’re smarter than that.” 

Cameron says nothing— lets the warning echo in the stagnant air while Donna works. The shrill chirp of a cell phone breaks the silence. Cameron and Donna just look at each other before Cameron asks, “Aren’t you gonna answer that?” 

“It’s not mine,” Donna frowns. 

“Shit," Cameron is up out of her seat and across the kitchen muttering, "Shit shit shit. Don’t say anything. You’re not here.” 

“You have another—” Donna’s face is bright red and furious, but she breaks off her sentence when Cameron shoots her a withering look and answers the phone. She doesn’t recognize the number on the screen.

“Hello?” 

“Cameron, hey,” a bright voice comes bursting through the speaker. The sound quality is poor and she can’t place the voice as anyone she recognizes.

“Hey… um. Sorry, who’s this?” 

“Oh! It’s Yo-Yo! Sorry, you probably don’t have anyone’s number saved. That guy Hunt can be kind of a dick that way.” 

“Oh, Yo-Yo,” Cameron stutters, completely aware that Donna is frowning at her with her jaw hanging open. She clears he coughs. "What’s up?” 

“Oh, um. I was just wondering— I mean, we’re going to be working together a lot, what with you being code and me being network. I was wondering if you wanted to meet up today and get started.” 

“Um... “ Donna’s still staring at her, eyes wide and lips frantically forming words without sound. “Yeah… yeah that would be cool. Is Lev coming too?” 

“Yeah yeah, totally. I'll see if he’s free,” Cameron turns away from Donna’s pantomiming, ignores the way Yo-Yo’s voice seems to have dropped an octave and maybe lost some of its enthusiasm. “We can meet at the coffee shop? Say around noon?” 

“Okay,” Cameron scratches the back of her neck before she notices she’s done it. She shakes the nervous jitters from her hand and rests it on her hip instead. “Sure, I’ll see you then.” 

“Cool,” Yo-Yo says, and the call ends. Cameron holds the phone to her ear for a second longer, not entirely ready for the verbal lashing she knows is coming her way. But soon she sighs and turns around, dropping the burner phone on the couch. 

“Care to explain to me _why exactly_ you have a second cell phone that the Bureau doesn’t know about?” 

“Um,” Cameron scratches at her neck again. “It slipped my mind?” 

“It slipped your mind,” Donna huffs an exasperated laugh. “It _slipped_ your _mind_? You just conveniently forgot to mention that you have a second phone that was given to you by a wanted criminal? It didn’t even occur to you that the FBI might want to inspect it? That it could be bugged? That we’re talking about sensitive information with a foreign piece of technology in the room? That you could have just outed yourself to one of the most dangerous men in the country? Honestly, Cameron, do you think any of this through? Or is this just some sort of game?” 

“It slipped my mind, alright? Jesus!” Cameron holds up her palms in surrender— a gesture that’s becoming entirely too familiar. “I didn’t intentionally keep it from you, I just— I fucked up okay?” 

“Give it to me,” Donna holds out her hand and Cameron crosses back to the couch to hand it over. “I can’t believe this,” Donna mutters. “Self-taught coder, hacked into some of the most secure servers in the country, IQ higher than anyone in the Bureau— you're practically a fucking prodigy and you don’t think to mention that you have a second phone?” She’s got her screwdriver in hand again and she's prying off the backplate. “How long have you had it?” 

“Since yesterday. Joe’s security guy gave us all burners.” 

“Fucking genius my ass,” she mutters, and pulls her own phone from her pocket to type out a text message. Probably to Bosworth. 

Cameron groans. She is so fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to stalk me on [tumblr](http://www.ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com). I like to tag [inspiration](http://ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com/tagged/deadlock).


	8. Bind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bind — v. to create a connection between two or more programming objects for a specified amount of time.
> 
> Cameron has spent the last three hours being yelled at via speakerphone. It’s almost 11:30 by the time Cameron is finally left alone in her apartment and she said she’d meet Yo-Yo on the West End at noon. She wants to take a shower— wants desperately to hide beneath her comforter and ignore everything going on in the world. But she’s got a job to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I let this story go way too long without an update, as usual. please accept my sincere apologies and have some angst, instead.

Cameron has spent the last three hours being yelled at via speakerphone. It’s almost 11:30 by the time Cameron is finally left alone in her apartment and she said she’d meet Yo-Yo on the West End at noon. She wants to take a shower— wants desperately to hide beneath her comforter and ignore everything going on in the world. But she’s got a job to do. She’s got a part to play and a jail cell to keep herself out of. So she turns in her PJs for a pair of jeans— barely an upgrade considering how many rips and tears they’ve got in them— and shrugs her jacket on over her tank top. 

Cameron misses her train by at least five minutes and so she strolls into the coffee shop almost a half hour later than she said she would. “Sorry,” she mutters as she sits beside Lev. “Train ran late.” 

“No worries,” Yo-Yo smiles from across the table. “We were just going over the stats for the target network. They’ve got like, twelve layers of security but none of them are particularly advanced.” 

“Yeah, somehow I’m not surprised.” Cameron sighs and looks around the shop for the owner. “Where’s um… What’s her name?” 

“Debbie?” She’s in the back, but she’ll be around.” 

“You can help yourself to the coffee though,” Lev tips his own paper cup and nudges his head back towards the front of the cafe. “The pot is just beside the counter.”

“Cool,” Cameron says. The coffee is only lukewarm when she gets there, but she didn't get the chance to drink the coffee Donna brought her. Neither did Donna, come to think of it. 

“So,” Yo-Yo says once Cameron takes her seat. “You have any experience hacking someone like this?” 

“I mean,” Cameron swallows a too-large gulp of coffee. “Not the CIA. I haven’t seen the specs, but most of the government agencies use the same basic protocols.” She shrugs and sips her coffee again, more slowly this time. When she emerges from behind the paper cup, she finds Yo-Yo and Lev staring at her with wide eyes. “What?” 

“You mean you’ve hacked a government network before?”

“Haven’t you guys?” Cameron frowns. “I mean, obviously it’s not something people just _do_ , but the way Joe talks about it, I thought you guys had some experience."

“No way man,” Yo-Yo laughs. “I worked for Verizon.” 

“Lev?”

“I’ve been on the team for… almost three years now? We’ve never done anything this big.” 

“Then why now? What changed?” 

"Honestly?" Lev shrugs. "Now we've got you."

\r_

It's not until later— after hours of research and analysis, after Cameron's drunk her second cup of mediocre coffee, after she and Lev and Yo-Yo devoured a pizza in between talk of specs and and analyses and projections— it's not until after all the planning has been done that it finally hits Cameron just how big this job is. It's not until after she's spent an afternoon going over the details that she starts to feel the guilt.

Lev and Yo-Yo are just regular guys. They're not bad people. They could have been her classmates or her neighbors— she could have met them anywhere. They're not criminals— at least not the way John Bosworth is going to treat them like criminals. They're no more deserving of twenty years in prison than Cameron is. 

No, actually— Cameron deserves it more than either of them, but she's getting off scot free because she decided to be a snitch. The thought has her stomach churning and threatening to bring her pizza back up. 

When Joe's number pops up on the screen of her burner phone, she thinks about ignoring it. She almost does, but beneath the nausea and the unrest is the nagging question of _why_. So she answers the call, and within half an hour she's stepping out into the cool nighttime air and sliding into the passenger's seat of Joe's car. The ride passes in silence. Cameron watches the world blur together outside the windows without focusing on any of the details. 

She says nothing as Joe closes his apartment door behind them, or as he pours two glasses of wine. She gulps and swallows; doesn't taste, doesn't savor. Doesn't really notice the burn in her throat or the warmth that spreads from her stomach, but she feels the weight of Joe's heavy gaze on her as she drinks.

"I met Lev and Yo-Yo at the coffee shop," she says, but only after they've been sitting silently on the couch for a minute or more. "We got started on a plan." 

"That's good. What do you think?" 

"I think they're… really good."

"I meant about the plan," 

"The plan is fine," she waves. "Whatever, but I'm curious. Where did you find them?" 

"Lev got into some trouble a couple years back. Nothing big, but he pissed off some powerful people. He had talent, though, and I was in a position where I could convince my boss that we wanted him on our side. This was before I went off on my own, but Lev agreed to come with me when I did. And Kenneth—" 

"Who?" 

"Yo-Yo," Joe laughs. "He was wasting his time and his potential working for one of the big name ISPs. Lev brought him in— they game together. Dragon… something." Joe shrugs in Cameron's periphery.

"Dungeons and Dragons." Cameron smirks and turns to face him. He's angled towards her, one hand holding his wine and the other draped behind Cameron's head on the back of the couch. His hair is an artful mess of wind and combing fingers and his smile is crooked.

"Can I ask you something?" 

"Of course," 

"What are we going after inside the CIA? What are you hoping to find?" 

The crease in Joe's brow is small— almost imperceptible, but it's there. "I have a buyer who's interested in a piece of information." 

"And if you hadn't brought me onto the team. If you'd never met me, would you be going after it now?" 

"If I didn't take this job then someone else would have." 

"I know. I get that, but would _you_ be working on this job if it wasn't for me? Would Lev, would Yo-Yo?" 

"Cameron…" Joe sighs. "Where is this coming from?" 

"I'm curious is all," Cameron shrugs, trying for nonchalance and probably failing. "You told Gordon that he couldn't write the code for this job. Was that you just getting him to shut up, or was that you telling the truth? Could you do this job without me?" 

"Are you saying you want out?" 

"That's—" _Yes. Please. I want out. I want a do-over. I want to go home, back to before any of this ever happened._ "No." she sighs. "That's not what I meant." 

"Then what do you mean?" Joe's frown deepens, but he's not angry. "What's wrong?" 

"It's just something that Lev said." 

"What did Lev say?" 

Cameron sighs again and studies the glass of wine in her hands. "That he'd never taken on a job this big before. Never done anything like this. Yo-Yo too. I just need to know that _I_ am not the only reason we're doing this. Hacking the CIA, risking prison or… worse. I need to know it's not because of me." 

Joe just sort of looks at her and takes a sip of his wine. "You wanna know what I thought, the first time I saw you?" 

"This girl is totally lost?" She deadpans. Joe laughs and Cameron is surprised to find that it eases the weight that's begun to slowly crush her ribs. 

"Okay, maybe not the first time I saw you. But when we were at the bar that night. I thought: _her_. She's got the talent and the balls that nobody else has. She's going to be unstoppable. She's the future." 

The room is quiet— only the far-off hum of the refrigerator humming in the kitchen breaks the silence. Cameron's still studying her hands, scratching at the skin around her nails as she holds her glass. "Are you saying this because you think you need to talk me down from a ledge?" She turns to him. The look on his face makes her heart climb into her throat.

"I'm telling you this because it's true. And because you deserve to hear it." 

Cameron frowns, forcing herself to breathe and furiously holding back the ache of tears. "Fuck you," she swallows. There's a pang of something sharp: a stab against her sternum. She pushes against it, leans in and reaches outward until she's crossed the divide between them. She kisses him, pressing closer, hoping to ease the ache that's spreading through her chest and cramping between her ribs. She's sucking down air and crushing herself closer, but Joe's hands settle carefully at the curve of her waist, the touch soft against the tension beneath her skin. 

The response is automatic— she closes her eyes and leans into the touch. She blocks out the worry, pushes the anxiety back into a corner and lets her instinct take over. Her thoughts are swimming, nagging, itching, but then Joe's tongue is pushing past her lips and his hands are holding her face, his touch light and gentle and completely foreign. 

Cameron is terrified. 

But she wants this, and she doesn't let herself think about all the reasons why she shouldn't. Every part of her is reaching towards him, pressing closer and leaning into the soft hold he has on her. She suppresses the guilt and ignores the repercussions, forgets about everything except the soft glide of skin and the firm press of muscle. She drinks in each heavy breath, catches every moan that falls from Joe's mouth.

She lets herself go and refuses to worry about anything else.

\r_

"Jesus fucking— What the hell, Bos?" Her apartment was locked, just the way she'd left it, but Bosworth is sitting at her kitchen table, suit jacket and tie missing, the top button of his shirt undone. 

Donna told her this morning that her cell phone would record everything and transmit it all once she was out of range. 100 feet, she said. That plus a train ride and a trip to the liquor store apparently gave Bos enough time to listen to what happened at Joe's, break into Cameron's apartment and help himself to a glass of water.

"Little late for a booze run, don't you think?" 

Cameron pulls a bottle from the six pack in her hand before popping off the cap. "Not a chance," she sits down across from Bos and takes a long drink. "So," she says, faking nonchalance. "I thought my apartment was a no-go zone now that I'm playing for the dark side. To what do I owe the pleasure?" 

"You're being stupid, Cameron." 

"Don't worry. I always carry my keys between my fingers when I'm out after dark. You have no idea how many weirdos are lurking out there." 

"You're getting too close to this. You need to pull yourself back and remind yourself of what's important." 

"And what's that, Bos?" She drinks again. 

"The mission," he says. "Keeping yourself safe and out of prison." 

"You know, I used to think those two things were synonymous, but now I'm starting to wonder." 

"This isn't a joke, Cameron. I'm not the only person calling the shots here, and if the wrong people think you've switched sides then the deal is off." 

"The deal. You know, I've been meaning to talk to you about that. I want to add some conditions to our agreement." 

"Now hold on there. You don't get to be making any demands. Not in your position." 

"And what position is that? Hm? I get shoved back and forth from person to person, everyone using me for their own ends without a care for the fact that I'm a _person_ , not some new toy." 

"Come on now, that ain't true." 

"No?"

"You're a good kid, Cameron. You made some dumb ass choices, but that doesn't mean you have to go down for them!" 

"You know what, that's exactly my point. So here are my conditions. Lev and Yo-Yo get the same deal I do. Whatever happens once we get started, they don't go down for it." 

Bosworth sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. "You're too close to this, Cameron." 

"I don't care." 

"Yeah, well I do. You think you can go in there every day, sleep with a wanted criminal and keep yourself from caring? You think you can make friends with these people, dig yourself down that deep and then just walk away? Well you're wrong. All it does it make you a liability." 

"So take me out," Cameron shrugs. "Throw me in prison. I deserve it." 

Bos says nothing, only sighs. 

"Yeah," Cameron bites. "That's what I thought. You need me. Joe needs me. Apparently, this job just doesn't happen without me. So. Lev and Yo-Yo are safe. Deal?" 

"I'll see what I can do." 

"Thanks Bos. Knew you could do it." Cameron smirks at the look he's giving her. Like he's a shepherd and she's some lost, self-destructive lamb. She stands and drains her beer, leaving the empty bottle beside the sink. "It's late. You can see yourself out, right?" 

Cameron crosses the kitchen and the living room, slowly gathering clothes from her bedroom floor as Bosworth sighs. She waits until she hears his chair scrape across the linoleum, until the front door closes before she resurfaces. She hurries to slide the deadbolt before finally taking a deep breath. 

Maybe she is in too deep. Maybe she shouldn't let herself get attached, but fuck if she's going to let Bosworth tell her so. 

She turns the hot water up in the shower and stands beneath the spray, trying to figure out if she feels anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr](http://ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com). feel free to come and say hi!


	9. AbEnd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AbEnd — v. Short for abnormal end, is a term used to describe when a program or task terminates without warning.
> 
> Bosworth is right: it shouldn't be so hard to keep pretending, to do the same thing she's been doing all along. But maybe she was never just _playing a part_. Maybe the only person she's really been lying to is herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter (and the next one) have been nagging at my brain for months. I've been busy, but I've been obsessing over the details, replaying these scenes in my head before I fall asleep. I'm obsessed. I have only a vague idea of what comes after this, but suffice it to say that we've reached a turning point in the story. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it?
> 
> **triggers for assault and physical restraint.**

Cameron feels sick. Her stomach drops and her heart pounds mercilessly against her ribs as her fingers start to go numb where her cell phone digs in. “What do you mean, no deal?” 

“I mean no deal."

"But I thought—" 

"I told you I’m not the only one calling the shots here. I take orders too, and those orders say no deal.”

“So… so what does that mean? The whole thing is off?” 

“Look,” Bosworth sighs. “I’m trying my damned hardest to keep you safe, but you make it real difficult when you go around making demands and getting yourself into trouble. You still have your immunity, but I can’t help your friends.” 

“But— you don’t understand! These are _good_ guys! They don’t deserve— You can’t expect me to go back in there and—” 

“I can. And I do. You’ll go back in there same as always. You’ll follow the plan, same as always. You play your part, you keep your head down and you let me do the rest.” 

“No. No I don’t— I don’t think I can— I can't—” 

“Cameron. Hey. Take a breath. Just calm down. You’ll be okay, you just gotta take a step back and breathe… Come on now, breathe for me.”

Hot tears burn traitorously behind Cameron’s eyes. Her throat closes around desperate words and arguments, but she knows it won’t do any good to beg. “Yeah. Okay,” she croaks, and ends the call. 

Bosworth is right: it shouldn't be so hard to keep pretending, to do the same thing she's been doing all along. But maybe she was never just _playing a part_. Maybe the only person she's really been lying to is herself. It was a bad idea to let herself get so close. But it was a worse idea to let herself get involved in the first place.

Fuck. Cameron is in so much trouble. Maybe she's gone soft, but she can’t pretend everything is alright while she stabs her friends in the back. She can't walk away from this knowing they're rotting in prison. She has to do something.

She sits on the couch and stares at the clock for at least a minute before she realizes the time— she has plans to meet Joe at the coffee shop in less than half an hour. Maybe she can talk to him, maybe she can figure out some of this shit without giving herself away. The last time they saw each other things were… they seemed different. Like maybe he would understand… like maybe if she told him he was being watched they could… god, who is she kidding? Even if she told Joe she was being blackmailed, it probably wouldn’t make any difference. 

Cameron snatches her jacket and her backpack off the floor. She leaves her cell phone on the couch, vaguely recognizing that Bosworth will be rip shit when he realizes. She doesn’t care. 

It’s warm outside— too warm for a jacket, but it’s more habitual than practical anyway, and Cameron clings to the familiar comfort it brings her. She crosses the street at an anxious jog, her skin already beginning to prickle with sweat. The nearest train station is ten blocks away but she makes it there in good time. She stands on top of the yellow line, her feet restless and her fingers catching at the jagged edges of her hangnails. 

Cameron finds a seat when the train finally pulls into the station and all there’s left to do is wait. Strangers crowd into the train. A man heaves himself into the seat at her right and more stand in front of her. She counts down each stop as the air grows warmer, as the bodies crowd in closer. 

The train lurches as it pulls into another station— three more stops to go— and the man sitting beside her suddenly grabs for the strap of her backpack. 

“Hey!” She leaps forward and catches the strap but the man only yanks harder, leading her to stumble off the train behind him.

They're in the thick of the crowded platform, Cameron struggling to keep her hold on her backpack. She trips forward as the strap is nearly pulled from her hands. She might have fallen, but the man just stands there as she stumbles forward. She looks up at the would-be thief with confusion— the context is all wrong, casual sweatshirt in place of a suit jacket— but the face is familiar and recognition hits her hard. 

Hands close around her arms and suddenly everything starts to click together. It’s Bosworth’s douchebag agent, the same guy who first picked her up at the arcade, the same asshole who was waiting in her apartment after that first night with Joe. He pushes her across the platform, away from the milling crowd. Cameron squirms and struggles but the grip he’s got on her arm only clamps down, fingers digging deep as she screams. 

“Police,” he calls out. “Move along!” Cameron screams but no one comes to help. She struggles as she scans the crowd, but anyone who meets her eyes quickly looks away. She kicks and she twists but it gets her nowhere and only once they've broken free of the bulk of the crowd does he finally let her go.

She’s pitched forward into a wall at the far end of the platform. It’s rough red brick littered with graffiti and old wads of gum. She manages to catch herself before she lands face-first, but the grit stings as it scrapes across her palms. His bulk is claustrophobic as he presses in close behind her, his hands warm and beefy when he grips her wrist. He rips her left hand from the wall and twists it against the base of her spine. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” 

He says nothing. The faint clink of a chain echoes above the din of the platform and panic sparks at the base of Cameron’s chest. She squirms, bucks away from the wall and tries to tear her arm out of his hand. Cold metal brushes her fingers and she screams, a wordless cry of frustration or fury, and she rears her head back with all the force she can manage. 

Bone cracks against bone. She hears it before she can feel it, and there’s a second of silent shock that leaves her just enough time to pry her arm free. She spins and sprints, but Bosworth's goon reacts too fast. He grabs her by the hair, pulling her up short with a sharp jerk.

Cameron drops her backpack as she falls to the rough concrete, clawing at the hand in her hair and screaming as it tears at her scalp. She scrambles to get her feet beneath her again as she's dragged backwards. 

She doesn't see it coming. Pain flares hot in her mouth, blunt against her teeth and sharp as her lip splits. She’s been punched before— been in fights worse than this— but that doesn't make it hurt any less. The shock of it is fresh as the blood pools in her mouth, but she recovers enough to spit a wad of it in his face. 

Then the world flashes white as her cheek is brought down hard against the brick wall. She cries out and she's smashed against the wall again, the bone-deep shock and the sting of broken skin leaving her feeling stunned and slow. 

She slumps to the ground as her hair is let go, landing hard on her knees while her ears ring. Distantly, she realizes both her hands are being pulled behind her back. She feels the sharp slap of metal against her left wrist and then her right, but her vision is fuzzy and the world is spinning. She somehow manages to stand and she's pushed forward into the crowd, the meaty hand of Bosworth's douchebag agent clamped around her arm. 

The sun is bright when they reach ground level, the light only inflaming the ache spreading through her skull. 

"Jesus Hank, what the fuck?” 

“You heard what Bosworth said. She’s a flight risk.” 

“So?” 

“So I’m eliminating the risk.” 

The sound of a car door opening drifts slowly through Cameron’s brain, and she opens her eyes to see a plain black sedan parked in the shade. A hand tucks around the back of her neck, pushes her down and angles her inside. She wants to say... something, but her mouth isn’t working and her limbs won’t listen to her. The door is slammed closed before she can try again.

Inside is dark and quiet. Her heart is beating an erratic rhythm inside her temples and against the metal cuffs around her wrists. It scares her how long it takes for her to realize that the strong smell coming off the upholstery is _leather_. 

The ride is short but by the time they pull to a stop, Cameron’s thoughts are clearer. Sunlight streams through the door as it’s pulled open, bright and hot against her skin. The windows are tinted, she realizes, and it’s such a strange detail to focus on when she’s in handcuffs— when she’s being kidnapped or arrested or whatever the fuck this is supposed to be— she’s paying attention to the tint of the fucking windows.

She’s pulled out of the car like a puppet on a string; she may have regained some of her cognitive function but her legs might as well be made of jelly. It hardly matters though, not when _Hank_ is dragging her along beside him. Ahead of her, the second agent has her backpack clutched in one hand. She catches sight of the familiar facade of the Renaissance Tower and things finally start to fall together. 

With a sickening sort of certainty she realizes: it doesn't matter if she was going to tell Joe the truth or if she was going to keep on lying. Maybe she’s being pulled from the job altogether. Maybe she’ll end up in prison after all, but Joe is going to find out one way or another. 

Cameron laughs. 

All the work she’s put into this job, all the shit she’s gone through to keep herself safe and free and it’s all for nothing. Bosworth is pulling the plug. Cameron missed her meeting with Joe, she was arrested in public. She’s being dragged through the streets of Dallas, sporting bruises and handcuffs in broad daylight. All Joe has to do is run a sweep of traffic cams or public surveillance and she’s caught.

Her cover is blown. There’s no use in fighting it anymore, and that realization brings with it a strange sense of relief. She doesn’t have to worry about anything anymore. Let the FBI have her, let the honest taxpaying citizens of America foot the bill for her incarceration. The food will be shit but at least she won’t have to keep playing this game. 

Cameron expects the agents to walk her through the front door like a prized kill fresh from the hunt, but instead they skirt around the corner of the building and step quietly through a service entrance. The elevator is large, the doors open double-wide and the ride passes in silence. Cameron’s arm has practically gone numb beneath the death-grip Hank has on her. She squirms uncomfortably but his grip only tightens as he shakes her. 

The elevator dings cheerfully when they reach the seventeenth floor. The doors slide open to reveal a dark hallway, the floor only bare cement and the walls stark white. She’s led through one door and then another, but nothing looks familiar. 

“Where are we going?” No answer. Cameron’s gut is starting to churn; something is off. “Where’s Bosworth?” 

The next door opens into a room. One chair, no windows. Not even one of those two-way mirrors. Cameron’s been interrogated in this building before— this isn’t the way it goes. She plants her feet at the threshold and digs in, struggling in earnest, her heart skidding against her ribs. 

“Help!” She screams, looking around for a sign of somebody— anybody else. She yells and she screams, flailing and kicking, but she’s losing ground. Hands shove and pull, drawing her further inside the room while she wails.

But no one shows up. Hank rounds on her, his meaty face pushed right into Cameron’s personal space. His nose is bruised from when she reared her head into it. She spits. _God_ does it feel good to see the glob of blood that’s been sitting between her teeth land square on the douchebag’s cheek. 

He releases her arms in a rage, his face burning such a bright shade of red it’s almost funny. Almost. His hands are sweaty as they lock down around Cameron's throat. His teeth are short and squat as his lips peel back in the most sadistic smile Cameron’s ever seen. 

“Hank! Hank what the fuck, this was not part of the plan.” 

Cameron’s shoulders land hard against the wall, her hands digging into her back. She can breathe, but only barely. Her pulse throbs thickly in her split lip and beneath the bruise already swelling beside her eye. Hank’s thumbs dig in beneath her jaw and Cameron’s vision tunnels, goes grey at the edges until all she can see is Hank, his eyes narrowing as his lips tick into a smirk. 

Then suddenly she’s on the floor, coughing and gasping with her legs tangled and numb beneath her. The room seems brighter, someone is shouting not far away. Everything hurts. Cameron can focus just enough to hear the click of more handcuffs between her hacking and coughing. 

Looking around, the room is empty. Both the agents are gone and the door has been pulled firmly shut. She’s sitting down, but she’s not on the floor. She doesn’t understand until she tries to stand and the strike of metal on metal pulls her up short.

Fuck. Cameron groans. This was not how her day was supposed to go.

\r_

The room is silent for a long time. The only sounds are her raspy breathing and the creak of the chair as she shifts her weight. She swallows thickly and takes stock: she's alone. She’s still handcuffed, her hands stretched behind her back and then chained to the crossbar of the chair. The legs are bolted to the cement floor— it won't budge no matter how hard she pulls. 

She doesn't see a camera or any kind of recording equipment, but that doesn't mean it's not there. Who knows what this room is used for, but something tells her it's not somewhere people go very often. There is no clock, no way to gauge how late it is or how much time has passed. Cameron is thirsty and her head is pounding dully as it lolls forward. 

She shifts to pull the tension away from her left shoulder— she's sore everywhere, but there especially. 

Cameron jerks as her phone starts vibrating in her pocket, pulling her from the unfocused haze she's been stewing in for god knows how long. She's confused for a moment— didn't she leave her cell inside her apartment?— until she remembers her burner phone. It's Joe calling— it has to be— no one else would be looking for her. 

She reaches for her pocket instinctively, the movement quickly aborted as the metal bites into her skin. She tries to edge her fingers closer, making it so far as to brush the edge of her belt loop, but there's not enough slack for her to reach any further. 

Eventually the phone stops ringing and Cameron looks to the door, far away to her right. She'd tried calling for help a while ago, but her voice was raspy and jagged and she couldn't manage any real volume. She decided to save her energy. It was after noon when she left her apartment, and someone has to come for her before the work day is over. Right?

They wouldn't just leave her here, would they? 

But if she's right, Bosworth doesn't know she's here. If she's right, no one knows she's here besides Hank and his slightly-less-evil counterpart. How long can humans survive without food or water? Cameron can't remember, but it's way longer than Cameron would like to stay in this room. 

Eventually her phone starts ringing again. Cameron counts the rings, each one twisting her stomach into a tighter knot. She tries again to reach her pocket. The phone stops ringing. 

A minute later it starts again, the faint sound echoing in the empty room and rattling inside her bones. She's so _close_. If she could reach the phone she could call for help. Not from Joe— even if he wanted to help her after he'd found out, he wouldn't be able to just walk into the FBI and rescue her. The ringing stops. 

This time, she panics. Breath shrieks through her lungs and scratches in sharp, desperate heaves. She reaches again on instinct, her hand floating freely through the air until the edge of the handcuffs slap and grind against her bones. Her skin is hot and inflamed, the same pressure pulsing in her lip and her cheek and her throat echoing through her hands. She strains against her bonds again. 

Again, again, again, until her chest seizes and her shoulders begin to shake. Tears burn fierce down her cheeks, stinging her scrapes and steaming over her heated skin. Shame festers in her gut, even though there's no one around to see her. She tucks her feet up on the chair, drawing her knees close to hide her face, and she cries. She sobs. 

If she finds any relief, it's only that she doesn't notice whether or not the phone rings again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah. months. you can imagine what it might feel like to have this trapped inside your brain for that long.
> 
> feel free to leave a comment or come say hi on [tumblr](http://ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com).


	10. Glitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glitch — n. A sudden interruption in electric service, sanity, or program function.
> 
> The voices she hears aren't real, but that doesn't stop the weak flinch of hope she feels as they grow closer. Cameron's mind is playing cruel tricks on her. And it's working.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I. AM. SO. SORRY. I can't believe I let this story sit for five fucking months. 
> 
> to those of you who are still with me, PLEASE accept this chapter as an apology! 
> 
> a special thank you to [criminal_intent](http://archiveofourown.org/users/criminal_intent/pseuds/criminal_intent) for giving me the push I needed to get this chapter done.

Cameron is hearing things. First it's phantom footsteps passing by the door, slow and deliberate, like they're taunting her. Then it's the imaginary creaking hinges of a door she can't see. By the time she hears voices from the hallway outside, the ache in her arms has spread over her shoulders and cramps in her ribs. 

Her mind is playing cruel tricks on her. And it's working.

The voices she hears aren't real, but that doesn't stop the weak flinch of hope she feels as they grow closer; footsteps layered with leisurely conversation. She hears the door swing open, can feel the faint breeze of disrupted air against her heated skin.

" _Cameron_? Jesus, are you alright?" It's traitorous and infuriating, but she can't help the swell of relief as Bosworth's familiar twang reverberates around the room. Beneath the fringe of her hair, she can see the shine of his loafers, the crease of his slacks as he crouches next to her. "What in the hell were you boys thinking?" he shouts. "Get these things off her!" 

"Oh, come on now, she's fine!" Another voice echoes against the bare walls. "Get up off the floor, John. You're embarrassing yourself." Cameron doesn't know him, doesn't recognize his lazy Texas drawl, but Bosworth clearly does. He stands after a moment's hesitation, but not before squeezing Cameron's leg gently. 

It's a warning— a _hang in there_ , but it doesn't make Cameron feel any better. She keeps her head bent low, back slouched to keep some of the tension out of her chest. 

"You knew about this?" 

"John," the man chides, and Cameron can feel Bosworth bristle from where he's standing over her shoulder. "You really oughtta know better. Ain't nothing happens 'round here without my knowing." 

"She's just a kid, Nathan!" 

"You make the mistake of assuming we're on equal ground here, agent. Maybe it's my fault you started thinking you were the man in charge, but that ends now. Only words I wanna hear out of your mouth from now on are 'yes' and 'sir.' Understood?" 

There's a moment of tense silence before Bosworth gives in and mutters, "Yes sir." 

"Good. Now. This whole under cover operation y'all got going on here? It's over. Done. I so much as hear the name Joe MacMillan again and I will personally see to it that you both wind up in prison. Am I making myself clear?" 

"Yes sir," Bosworth's grinding teeth are practically audible. 

"Miss Howe?" There's a beat or two of silence before he asks again, annoyance heavy in his voice. "Miss Howe?" The muscles in Cameron's neck and shoulders are screaming, her arms tingling with pins and needles, but she swallows thick and dry as she lifts her head. 

There's an older man leaning against the wall in front of her, hair gone mostly white, bolo tie around his neck, suit jacket hanging open and shirt buttoned tight over his belly. "We understand each other?" 

She nods stiffly. 

"Sorry darlin'," he drawls, but the curve of his lips says he's not the least bit sorry. "I need to hear the words."

Cameron glares and bites, "Yes— sir." 

"Well alright then. Set 'er loose, boys."

\r_

Soon she’s on her feet, clutching her backpack and a half-empty bottle of water tight against her chest. Cameron has no idea what time it is, but it's hours past sunset, at least. The only light in the alley comes from a street lamp on the corner and the headlights of an idling taxi.

Bosworth opens the rear door of the cab and stands aside to let her climb in. 

"Look, Cameron—" She looks up to see that lost lamb look on Bosworth's face, but there’s something else, too. He sighs and palms the back of his neck, more unsure about his next words than Cameron has seen him be about anything. "I—" 

"You know what?" Cameron clenches her jaw, fury and spite rising hot in her throat. "Don't bother." 

And surprisingly, that's enough. Bosworth's shoulders slump and he nods before closing the car door. Cameron can hear him giving directions to the driver. The guy meets her eyes in the rearview mirror before he nods and shifts the cab into gear.

The drive is short. There's hardly any traffic and Cameron doesn’t bother buckling her seatbelt or making any small talk. They pull up in front of her building and she reaches to dig through her backpack in search of her wallet.

“It’s taken care of,” the driver says. He turns in his seat to look at her, his hand resting against the passenger side headrest. “Are you alright?” 

Cameron thinks about it for a second. She knows how this must look— a man in a suit leading a broken girl out of a high-end building downtown and paying for her cab fare late at night. 

Cameron is not okay. Not even a little, but every atom in her body is screaming to get out of there— out of that car and into the relative safety of her apartment. So she lies and says, “Yeah. Thanks.” 

Her hands are shaking as she pries open the cab door and nudges it closed with her hip. The cab waits by the curb while she fights with the key to unlock the door of her building. Once inside, she leans against the wall, breathes the familiar stale air and listens as the car outside shifts into gear and drives off. 

She climbs the the stairs slowly, counting thirty-five steps from the ground floor to her apartment door, aching for the soft sanctuary of her bed. She’ll think about what comes next— she’ll figure something out— but first she needs to sleep.

Her key scrapes over the deadbolt as she trembles, fatigue and the worn out threads of adrenaline fighting her for control as she turns the lock.

“Cameron?”

  “Fuck!” She nearly drops her backpack as she turns to find Joe standing by the couch with an indecipherable look. “What are you _doing_ here?”  

“You were supposed to meet me at twelve-thirty.”

“So you break in to my apartment? God, do locked doors mean nothing anymore?" 

“I didn't mean to scare you, I just… got worried." Joe pauses by the kitchen table while Cameron stands by the open door. “What happened?" He frowns, but his voice has gone gentle. 

Cameron's brain stalls, a thousand aborted explanations rising to the surface, but all she says is, “You need to go.”

  “Cameron,” Joe steps closer, his voice edged with either anger or concern; she can’t tell which. She steps back as Joe reaches past her to pull her keys from where they still hang in the lock and push the door closed. “Are you okay?”  

“I’m fine.” He steps closer and Cameron backs away again, her hips knock against the counter.  

“Cameron—”

  “I’m fine,” she insists, but her voice shakes. Tears prickle at her eyes and give her away. She doesn’t exactly want to be alone but she doesn’t want to answer any questions, either. Not tonight. 

Joe's eyes rove over her dry, burning eyes, the dull throb in her cheek and the bruise on her jaw that pound in time with her frantic heart. He reaches out and she flinches, instinctively ducking her head away. He seems to think better of it, and instead his fingers close around the canvas of her backpack, pulling it gently from her arms and setting it on the kitchen table.

"I'm fine," she says again.

Joe's expression clouds and he takes hold of her hand, still shaking even despite her best efforts. He pushes back the hem of her jacket sleeve and turns her palm up, exposing the broken skin and dried blood that clings there. God, he's furious. His eyes are blazing, the muscles of his jaw working beneath his skin as he looks up at her. 

“I'm fine." The words barely make it past the tears cinching tight around her throat.  All at once Joe’s arms are around her shoulders, his hands splayed wide over her hunched back and cradling the back of her head. She's tense, still waiting for an explosion that never comes. Joe only holds on, his fingers soothing over her back and combing gently through her hair.

"Don't worry," he whispers, "you're alright. You're safe, I've got you." Cameron can see the detail in the weave of Joe's shirt, the single stray thread on the seam of his sleeve. It all feels so impermanent, so fleeting. Like they're standing on a bridge that's about to collapse. This… whatever this is, it will end. One way or another it'll all be over and there's nothing she can do to make it stay.

Her thoughts are slow and they make no sense, and she does the only thing she can. She wraps her arms around Joe's waist, closes her eyes as he gently squeezes her shoulders and presses his lips to the crown of her head. She wants to believe him, wants to believe that the Joe MacMillan she saw the other night was more than just a show; that he meant the things he told her. 

More than anything, she wants to believe that he cares, and he's making it _so easy_. "Do you need anything? Something to drink, something to eat?" 

She shakes her head and sinks further into the heat of his skin. "Sleep." 

"Let's get you cleaned up first, okay?" Cameron sinks bonelessly into the chair Joe pulls out for her, watches him pull a clean rag from a nearby drawer and run it under the faucet without a word. Joe's hands are soft as he dabs at the scrapes on her face. 

Her jacket slips off her shoulders with some help and he sets it on the nearest chair, kneeling on the linoleum by her feet. She watches his face as he turns one of her hands over, eyes growing darker the longer he wipes at the broken, swollen skin at her wrists. Joe looks up at her, jaw clenching visibly as he reaches to trace the raw edges of her throat.

"Cameron…" he wants to ask more, she knows, but he settles for a wordless, pleading look. 

"Please," she whispers. "I'll explain everything but just… not tonight, okay?"

Joe nods after a minute of silence. "Do you want me to leave?" 

Cameron isn't sure what she expected, but it wasn't this. And she surprises herself by shaking her head, the words almost too big to make into the quiet air between them. She swallows and whispers, "I don't want to be alone."

\r_

Cameron is sore everywhere. It hurts even to breathe and she immediately tries to will herself back to sleep. She feels the bed dip beside her, hears the old frame creak under the weight of another body and her heart leaps in her chest.

Joe. Joe spent the night. She opens her eyes again to see him lying on his side, T-shirt stretching over the curve of his shoulders with every breath. His eyes are trained on Cameron, but there's none of the expectation or urgency she thought she'd see there. 

"I didn't mean to wake you," he says, and she believes him. "How are you feeling?" 

She tests the ache in her shoulders, the tension in her neck, wincing as she shifts to lie on her back. She knows she's going to have to talk sooner or later. "Like I spent the day in handcuffs," she mumbles around a groan.

"I brought you some Advil," Joe says. She sits up and takes them, drains the entire glass of water to give herself more time to think.

"I don't want to pressure you, Cameron, honestly I don't. But I need to know what's happening. I can't… I can't help you if I don't know what we're up against." 

"It doesn't matter," she shakes her head. "This isn't something we can fix— we can't fight this. You need to leave town. Forget about this job and lay low until it all blows over. You and Lev and everybody. You need to disappear."

"I'm not just going to leave you here on your own," Joe frowns. "Cameron, talk to me," he pleads. "Whatever it is, we'll figure it out." He doesn't understand; how could he?

"You don't get it! These people, they aren't— there's no winning here. If you don't leave you'll end up in prison." 

"I've always known that was a possibility. I'll take the chance." 

"But why? What are you after that could make all this worth it? Money? There are better ways to get rich, Joe."

"It's not about the money. There is no money in it for me." 

"What then? What could you possibly have to gain?" 

Joe's face grows dark and something seems to solidify in the air between them. "You first. Why did you take this job, Cameron?" 

"Because…" She bites her lip as she searches for the best way to tell him she's a mole and a snitch. "I would have gone to prison anyway," she confesses. "I was blackmailed. They've got dirt on me that goes back years and they told me the only way to make it go away was to help them catch you." 

The room is quiet until Joe asks, "Who?"

"It doesn't matter. It's over. They pulled the plug. I'm surprised they even let me go last night."

"Cameron," he presses. "Who?" 

"This guy named Bosworth," she sighs, hoping maybe that's enough and that Joe will let it rest. 

"John Bosworth?" 

"You… know him?" Cameron's eyes snap up to Joe's face. 

"Jesus, he's the one who—" Joe cuts off and drags his fingers through his hair. "You're working with the military?" 

"No," Cameron gulps. "FBI. He promised me immunity but he's clearly got some vendetta against you." 

A distant siren is the only sound to break the still air. "What happened?" Silence falls again as she waits for an answer.

"I was in the army years ago. One of the first units to be deployed to Afghanistan. I enlisted to spite my father, more than anything. He was… well. He wasn't happy. I was an intelligence analyst. I was never supposed to leave the base, but then I was assigned to a unit going out into the field."

Joe stands and tugs at the hem of his shirt, practically tearing it in his effort to get it over his head. His chest and abdomen are covered in scars— some are only a couple of inches long while others look like chunks of his flesh have been torn away. "There was an explosion," he mumbles, eyes trained on his hands where he's clutching his T-shirt. 

"Of the five of us, three died and one lost a leg. The official report says that we ran over a land mine, but we'd already left the humvee when it exploded."

"But… intelligence analyst is a desk job. Why were you in that car?" 

"I think I saw something that I shouldn't have seen. Some piece of intel that I shouldn't have intercepted. That's what I'm after inside the CIA. Someone sent us on a suicide mission and got away with it."

"Shit," Cameron is speechless. "I don't— fuck, Joe, why didn't you tell anyone?" 

"Money is as good a motivator as any."

"Why didn't you tell _me_? I would have—" 

"What? You would have given up your deal? Gone to prison just so you could help me?"

"Yes!" She cries. "I would have!" 

"You're not stupid, Cameron." 

"I could have been there for you! You think I feel even an ounce of loyalty to those assholes?" 

"I don't need your pity. I've been fine on my own so far." 

"I don't believe that for a second," she laughs. "I know how it feels to have no one in your corner. You can't tell me you'd rather endure that than let someone else in." 

Joe tugs his shirt over his head again, breathing harshly through his nose. "Well. Now you know." 

"Yeah. And now that I know, we can work together to figure out a way to get what you need _and_ stay out of prison." 

"And how do you plan to do that?" 

The beginnings of a plan start to churn in Cameron's brain and for the first time in days, the hint of a smile tugs at her lips. "I've got an idea."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HAVE NO CLUE WHAT CAMERON IS PLANNING PLEASE HELP.  
> leave your ideas in the comments?


End file.
